Constellations
by Zo One
Summary: Alfred is only a magician in training when his best friend rides to war, never to return. When it seems he can never reach the grand potential his mentor believes he can, he runs away and miraculously finds the focus and reason to his life; but at a cost. How do you protect someone who is connected intimately to you, just as the stars are connected in a constellation? USUKUS
1. Prologue

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad – Netherlands

**Constellations**

_Prologue_

Their first meeting was insignificant. Definitely not something that seemed so very fateful or binding; but it was.

They had both been children, ages six and ten, when they bumped into each other in the middle of a courtyard filled with spring-blossoming peach trees. Alfred had been waiting for his Master, Radu the traveling magician, to return from an audience with the King of Flamberge. His Master had asked him to sit patiently on a stone bench in the shade of a young tree, but Alfred was curious of his surroundings.

"Excuse me," the older boy had said when they ran into each other, turning the same corner and colliding together. The boy was taller than Alfred with messy blond hair that stuck to his sweaty forehead. He carried what looked like a heavy wooden practice sword. "Pardon me that was my fault." The boy gave him a very slight bow, which made Alfred grip for the ends of his woven knee length robes, his orange boots digging into the dirt in bashfulness, before the other boy departed without another word.

Alfred had smiled to himself, hiding the expression in the tall collar of his robes as he ran through the small orchard, spending his time trying to catch falling pink blossoms. People here were very nice to him, and even though he hadn't had much interaction, the thought had made him giggle and smile. It wasn't long after that Radu found him, carrying Alfred's discarded cap in one hand. "I shouldn't be surprised," Radu had mumbled under his breath, if not a bit affectionately as he pushed the plumed cap over Alfred's blond hair, leaving only the young boy's eyes and knobby knees exposed to the spring winds. "I hope you didn't make any trouble while I was gone, hm?"

"Nope!" Alfred smiled, the apples of his cheeks red and round as he looked up at his Master. He set his hands on his hips, adopting a noble attitude. "Now _you _didn't get into any trouble while I was gone, huh?"

Radu chuckled, a few pink blossoms catching on the brim of his hat and nestling within the rim. "Far from it." He had smiled down at his protégé, and Alfred was going to miss seeing such a fond expression on the man's face. "In fact, I've secured the position of Court Mage at this castle. Now we won't have to move for a long while – just like I promised." Radu pat the top of Alfred's head. "So now you can have a home."

"A home," Alfred repeated with wonderment, his big blue eyes wide. He flung himself against his mentor's knees, clutching the fabric of his striped trousers as an excited grin crossed his face. A home; he was finally going to have a home.

* * *

The second meeting was more significant, but there was nothing they could do against the forces of a set fate. Alfred had settled into his new home well over the course of months as spring bled into summer and slowly crawled into the beginning of fall, while peaches were still ripe and ready for picking.

He spent his mornings with Radu in a secluded tower room with a musty library and desks with stained inkwells and groaning wooden chairs. "Being a magician is more than just knowing magic and performing magical acts," Radu would say as he tapped Alfred's open book with a crooked pointer stick, tracing over foreign letters and symbols as he slowly began explaining what they were and what they meant. "Being a magician is being a scholar – a talented scholar with a heart of gold and the courage of a lion. You have those qualities, don't you Alfred?" And Alfred would nod enthusiastically, adamant to have anything Radu asked of him.

In the afternoons, when the sun was hot and strong, making the tower study hot and unbearable, Alfred would spend his time in the orchard after eating a light meal. He charmed the servants into picking ripened fruit for him with a wide grin and a childish shine to his eyes as they placed the yellow fruit in his cupped hands. And it was on an afternoon just like that when they met again. Alfred was rubbing the fuzzed skin of a fresh peach against the fabric of his linen tunic as he turned down a row of trees to find his favorite spot for shade.

"Oh my!" the older boy had said this time as they collided. Alfred tripped over his own feet, falling at an awkward angle in order to save the peach in his hands. "Are you alright?"

Alfred got up, accepting the outstretched hand of the other boy to pull him onto his feet. "I'm fine, thank you." He was seven now, his birthday a small thing that had ended in an extra dessert on a hot summer night. The peach was heavy in his hands as he suddenly seemed to remember his manners. He gave a small bow to the boy (as he found that he would have to do that a lot to everyone he would meet in the castle walls). "I'm sorry," he said, "I wasn't watching were I was going."

The boy had a crooked smile, Alfred noticed, as he let the tip of his wooden sword fall to the grass in order to lean on it. "It's okay," he said with his crooked smile beneath sharp green eyes – Alfred wasn't sure if he'd ever seen anyone with eyes that green (maybe he was a fae – that's what the stories Radu mentioned said). "I've seen you around before. Are you new to the castle, then?"

"Oh. Yes. My name is Alfred, I'm Radu's apprentice." He was about to give the boy another short bow, but stopped at his dismissive wave and a chuckle.

"You don't have to bow to me, you know." He grinned at Alfred in a way that was both kind and superior. "My name is Arthur," he said, holding out his hand for Alfred to take, courtly manners drilled into him even at the young age of ten, "The second son of Duke Richard, however I'm training to become a Knight under the King's service."

Alfred perked in curiosity, and as he would learn in the future, curiosity wasn't always the best attribute to have. "Oh! Is that why you have that wood sword? Wow, a Knight! I've heard so many stories about Knights, you know!"

They stood in the shade of the peach trees sharing fruit and stories between themselves, until the sun started to dip behind the stone walls of the castle, cooling the land considerably, and Radu came searching for Alfred, scolding him for being late to his studies, and even though it was nice to see he was making friends his studies should always, always come first.

That day was the first time Alfred saw the tower as a prison.

* * *

"This is how I know Radu's predictions aren't always right," Alfred said as they walked down an overgrown path of the noble's gardens. "He said there wouldn't be clouds for three more days, but look – they're covering up the stars right now."

It was a chilly April night, the warm spring winds merely an undertone to the frost that still clung to the morning dew. Arthur's eighteenth birthday was only days away and he would be sent off on the other side of the country to train under the regiment of Sir Conrad Hansen – the King's most trusted military advisor and friend.

Over the years they had grown close, or as close as their circumstances allowed. Arthur was a well-liked member of the royal court, if not a little overshadowed by his occupation and weak lineage, and Alfred was always, always, in his tower study, pouring over books and practicing the art of conjuring the unbelievable. Radu was positive that someday Alfred would outshine him, but Alfred wasn't so sure.

Arthur clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it so much."

They weren't the best of friends; they disagreed on many things, fought over stupid issues, and were hard pressed to find a middle ground for all of their faults, but Arthur was the only friend Alfred had at the age of fourteen. He had wanted to give him a spectacular, if not memorable, farewell. "Well I am going to worry about it, because my whole plan is ruined now." Alfred pulled his cloak tightly around himself, pressing his nose into the high necked collar and sighed through his nose. "And it was such an awesome plan, too."

"What did you have in mind?" Arthur was taller than him, lean and muscular with years and years of combat training and physically demanding days. He was a handsome soon-to-be-man, and on more than one occasion Alfred had found himself envious of Arthur for being so regal and chivalrous and good looking (but it was okay, because in the end Alfred was the scholar with a heart of gold and the courage of a lion, not Arthur).

Alfred shrugged. "Radu's been teaching me about astrology, and it's really interesting." Alfred stopped in the center of a grassy expanse on the far edge of garden, away from the symmetrical walkways and hedges, to stare up at the cloudy sky. "I wanted to show you the constellations."

If there was one thing they shared, it was an interest in the more fantastical things of life. Alfred had always wanted to believe the tales and fables that Radu told him of, wanted to believe Arthur when he said that the name Alfred really meant that he could hold a counsel with the elves; he wanted to believe that there were actually benevolent gods and spirits that would grant wishes – could grant him freedom. "I know a few of them," Arthur said slowly, standing next to Alfred to stare up at the blank sky. "I don't know what ones you would find in this season though."

"There are plenty!" Alfred said, suddenly filled with vigor and excitement. "There's Crater, and Leo, and Hydra, and Ursa Major!" A thoughtful look crossed his face as he curled a fist before him, his fingers flexing before brought his hand towards the sky and flicked his wrist, his fingers spreading wide. Small sparks flied from his hand, settling gently in the air to glow as tiny pinpricks against the gray canvas behind them. "Leo would be right about here," Alfred said softly, pointing out a small group of glinting sparks and tracing between their points. "There's his head, and the tail here… legend says the lion was –"

"Strangled by a great hero, for his hide could not be pierced by any metal." Arthur looked away from the diagram in the air above him to stare at Alfred. "How are you doing that?"

Alfred made tired noise. "It's just tiny bits of fire," he answered morosely. "It's a parlor trick." He wasn't any good at the kinds of things that mattered. Not like Radu was. He couldn't summon creatures, couldn't conjure a decent flame, couldn't even build the most simplistic barriers because they were composed of elements he wasn't sure even _existed_, and to have Arthur so amazed by something to stupid as sparks – Alfred felt useless.

"That's more than I could ever do," Arthur pointed out and Alfred made a face. Arthur wasn't even slightly magically inclined, and if he was, it wasn't in a very extroversive way. "You're only fourteen Alfred, give it time. You'll be great one day."

His comment went unheeded as Alfred's attention delved back into the model above them, speaking with fervor about one of his favorite subjects. There was no point in spending his last moments with his friend speaking about could-bes. Not when they weren't likely to happen.

* * *

On his sixteenth birthday, Alfred was subject to the idea that he would never see Arthur again. In nearly two years, the letters and well wishes from his only friend slowly trickled off until there was hardly any word from the young nobleman at all. Sometimes Alfred sought out Arthur's father, the Duke, and asked for news of his son, but that was the only extent of his efforts.

With the Kingdom at war, each passing day could herald Arthur's death. It was something Alfred didn't want to hear, didn't want to think about. He secluded himself into his tower, only leaving on the hot afternoons to sit beneath the peach trees to talk to the servants that tended them.

And as every year passed, Alfred could see Radu growing more and more disappointed with him. At seventeen he was fluent in three languages, and literate in a dead dialect; he could name constellations from across the world from memory, could find them on a map and in the sky. At eighteen he had a firm grasp on mathematics and how to apply them to everyday life and situations, he moved on from mythical creatures to real ones, learning of foreign countries and their habitats, landscape, and politics. When he was nineteen he learned of philosophy, delving deep into the rhetorical questions of their days and attempted to understand the whys and the how.

But even as his twentieth birthday came, Alfred wasn't a magician. He was a scholar with a heart of gold who could perform parlor tricks on command. Radu saw this, and yet he pushed Alfred, demanded excellence, progress, he demanded _magic._ Alfred didn't see the point. Radu was a magician – he was powerful, the elements bent beneath his will, men and creature both trembled at his prowess, and yet he was in the service of a simple King, teaching a stupid boy to be exactly as he is.

It was on Arthur's twenty fifth birthday – his seventh year of absence, a simple nagging memory in the back of Alfred's overstressed mind – that Alfred escaped. By the light of the moon he conjured a briar from the earth, its stalks thick and unnatural as it slowly climbed up the side of his tower. It was gnarled and hissing, curling over the edge of his windowsill, blossoms budding and blooming with a furious snap of angry red color before wilting away.

He packed everything he could into a burlap bag that slung over his shoulder. The briar's vines were strong and secure in his hands as he slowly climbed down, nulling the pain in his mind with a concentration that melded mind and body as the thorns ripped at his palms, his blood smearing on the stone walls as he descended.

No one saw him leave, slip out of a shallow hole dug in the corner of the noble's gardens, and run wildly through the countryside like a man freed after years of imprisonment. His hands would be forever scarred from his efforts, and he knew, if he tried hard enough, he could rid himself of the pain and puckered welts, but he didn't – he wanted to remember it – always.

Even though he might have escaped one fate; he could never escape the grand scheme. No one can.

- End Prologue -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Hello guys! I've been sitting on this AU for quite some time and I really like it and am excited for it! I've really wanted to write some fantasy/high-fantasy stuff, or at least try my hand on it, so… here I am. :U (Also, yay for role reversals! It definitely makes this fun to write!)


	2. Chapter One: Boötes

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad - Netherlands

**Constellations**

_Chapter One: Boötes_

Vagrancy changes people, Alfred thinks as he walks down a dusty road in the high summer, the air is dry and tasteless as he wanders ever onward. The towns seem to grow further and further apart as he travels north in another restless quest to share his simple skills with those that he comes across. It's a dreary life – that of a traveling healer. It's been over a year since the day he scaled down the side of his prison; and his scars still burn when he thinks about them during longs nights under pine trees in his sleeping roll.

His life is listlessness as he roams across the lands, following the work left behind the never-ending war. Healing was something he never saw himself relying on as a student in Radu's tower (oh, by now he should be working for a King or maybe a Baron – devoting his life to their safety, just as Radu did before him). And yet here he is, walking down an empty road with dust clinging desperately to the leather of his boots.

The next village he runs across is a mere half mile from an active regiment of the Flamberge Army. The children do not run about his feet, shrieking about a stranger in their home roads, they do not play nor remove themselves from the dirty steps of their homes. All is quiet and morbid and Alfred is getting accustomed to the gloom that hovers sadly over each roof the further he walks. The village physician is the only one to greet him with a smile, only expressing his relief and surprise that someone who has a trade as odd as Alfred does, would happen to pass through his unlucky village. "I can't pay you much beyond meals and a bed, but we have many sick and a great many more injured."

"That's alright," Alfred says to the elderly, hunched man with a limp smile, wiping his palms on his dirty traveling robes. "I usually expect less, so thank you for your generosity."

It's all routine as he lays out his things on a wooden floor, rolling out his bed and pulling out a small wooden carving – a tiny totem of a fire breathing dragon – and places it under his pillow. Ever since he purchased it from a small vendor stall it reminded him of Radu. Some days he misses his old mentor and the promises he held, but then there were days when he resents it all – for the person that he is today.

"What's done is done," he tells himself, just as he always does. It never helps, but he supposes that someday it will. He's given a modest meal before the spritely old doctor ushers him off to where the patients are kept. Many of them are soldiers waiting to be shuttled off to larger towns for proper treatment. He's not unfamiliar with the gruesome aftermath of war, but it still makes him uneasy, fearing something unnamable each time he takes a moment to look at a dying soldier' face.

For most, herbs and tight gauze bandages will do, but for others it is obvious that there is isn't anything the elderly physician can do to ease their sufferings. That's where Alfred begins his work. Flesh is something he understands, something he can manipulate without attempting to connect or become something that he is not. He is flesh; human, breathing, and warm. Never does he have to wonder what it is like to burn as a fire, be steadfast and heavy as earth; to ponder the wet fluidity of cool water as his self, or maintain the sharp loftiness of air.

He may have failed as a magician, but he still has a heart of gold and the power to save those who are courageous as lions.

* * *

"Bite this," Alfred instructs one of the bed ridden soldiers. The man has a broken femur and is told every day that he will never walk again. Alfred has been watching him for days, groveling in his bed as a young woman makes her rounds with a damp sponge and a basket for laundry. There are others in worse positions than this man and they are crying for life and its beauty while the broken soldier carries on in morbid disgust. It's horrid to watch and see and yet, there's something about the melancholic grievances that attract Alfred, something that he understands and grieves for as well. He presses a strong stick between the soldier's teeth. "Bite. This will hurt."

The soldier groans and cries as Alfred exerts his energy into properly setting the bone, painfully breaking the small, incorrect, stitching the bone has already made. He wants to help, wants to end the alluring suffering inside this man and he can see the soldier in ten years, cursing his old wound as he finds his salvation at the bottom of a frothy mug and that's a thought that eats away at Alfred like a cantankerous poison – so he stops.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says to the soldier, gently drying the man's pained tears with a clean linen cloth. He doesn't know what else to say to him; 'You'll walk again someday', 'Have faith', or 'There is hope' all seem to be empty words and lies, so he says again, "I'm sorry," and rushes out of the stagnant hut to try and clear his head.

"You never get used to it." Alfred starts at the unexpected voice, twisting around and holding his hands out in front of his chest in a weak defensive gesture. He can't connect with the destruction of the world around him, but he knows something of spirit, the explosive spark of life that could save and ruin at once. The elderly physician simply smiles, unperturbed by Alfred's skittishness. "War is something you never get used to, no matter how much you think you do. There is always a new atrocity, a new victim – it never ends."

Alfred sighs to himself. This is a lesson he knows too well. Radu had taught him of consequences before ever showing him the act. He knew what evil, deceit, and war wrought before he ever saw them. Suddenly he tilts his head back to start at the drifting clouds. "Can you see the stars here?"

The physician blinks for a moment, steeping in thought. "Hm. The stars? I never thought to look."

* * *

The soldiers come and go from the cramped medical hut. Alfred tries not to get attached, tries not to miss the ones that smile and laugh at his horrible attempts at jokes to ease their discomfort around him. Magic is hardly seen as beneficial. They are men of war, they know the grotesque anger of magic when it is used to render flesh and eat life. He wants to prove that it can aid as well, but he knows he is not the best candidate for such a task.

At night he sits outside the hut where his bedroll is spread out on the wooden floor, picking grass and rolling it between his fingers as he traces the constellations with ease. Sometimes he deliberates creating his own constellations, but he can never think of good enough stories or meanings for the connection, can never relate to a specific pattern that sticks to his mind, the design patterning outwards until he can't recognize it any longer.

He rolls another blade of grass between his fingers, staring at the green plant as it began to stain his fingers a yellowish color. "Is there more?" he asks himself, examining his fingers. If this here was all life offered him, he's positive it's not a very full life; fulfilling, yes, but it leaves him feeling empty and as scarred as the men he tries to save. But what else is there in the world for a man like him? There is hardly a place he can go to without people fearing him, not a decent place to hide without the threat of Radu finding him (is Radu even looking for him? He's not sure if he wants to know the answer to that question.).

"Healer, healer!" a young girl shouts, running up the gravely slope only to trip and scrape her knee in her delirious haste. "Healer! They need you at the medical hut! A Captain was wounded in battle this evening and is on his way here for treatment! They need you!"

Alfred stands, striding forward to scoop up the girl into a helpful embrace, steadying her onto her feet once again. "Now, now, child," he said softly, pushing a hand through her unruly curls, "You should calm yourself. I'm going to the medical hut right now, but you need to return to your mother and let her clean you up – that was a nasty fall."

The girl smiles at him and nods. "I promise, but healer? Will you please save the Captain? Papa says that the Captain is the reason why the Drachman soldiers haven't come yet. I don't want them to come, healer!"

"I will, don't you worry." He gives her one last pat on the head. "Now go." Alfred waits the few moments it takes for her to make good on her word, dashing down the hill and into the small cluster of wood and clay huts, before he himself flies to the medical hut, gasping for breath as he arrives. "I heard the news," he tells the elderly physician who is preparing a bed for their newest patient.

He gives a solemn nod of his bald head, a hand coming up to rub at his spotted, wrinkled face. "Yes. I hear it's a belly wound… there is likely nothing we can do – assuming he's not dead by the time he arrives."

"Yeah, you're right …" Alfred cleans his hands anyway, taking off his robes and throwing them in the corner to avoid the blood that was surely to come. For the remaining minutes of agonizing wait, Alfred breathes, soothing himself with the steady count – inhale, two, thee, exhale, four, five. He breathes until his very fingertips feel lax and calm; finally reaching the state of mind that Radu had taught him was the best for performing any kind of controlled magic. The physician's nervous fidgets are the only noises in the lulled hut. Alfred hopes that there is some hope to the man's injuries. He can't help but to think about his promise to the young girl and the fate of this border village if this Captain should die. Responsibility is something that Alfred was familiar with, and if somehow this village were to succumb to the war, it would be another weight upon his shoulders, another burden for him to bear as he travels his meaningless life.

The tranquil quiet is broken with a sudden slam, the door flying open to give into an onslaught of men barking orders and choking back scared cries. Alfred rushes to the bed as a man is rolled onto the once white sheets, gasping and crying as blood leaks everywhere, immediately tainting everything with the evils of war. He doesn't think, just acts, pushing the man's bloody hands away from the gaping wound just below his ribs to examine the extent of it. The wound is bleeding fast, but Alfred believes that nothing important was punctured – there is hope.

"They ran 'im through!" a soldier shouts above the chaos as the physician attempts to staunch the swift bleeding. "They ran 'im through with a spear and the blood! It was just after sundown! It was time o' rest – there is no honor in fighting like that! No honor!"

How the man is even alive after having lost so much blood, Alfred can't fathom, but the Captain is hanging onto the final shreds of life with an iron grip, his purpling lips moving around wheezing gasps. He presses his hands over the wound and thinks of healing, remembers the processes of flesh and regeneration, the flow of blood that he shares within his own veins.

"Too slow!" the physician shouts at him. "He's slipping away."

Alfred pushes himself harder, opening his conscience to the flow of magic and focusing it into his patient. The elderly man grasps the Captain's face and angles it towards Alfred to try and ease his labored breathing, but Alfred makes the mistake of looking into that face, as he always does, hoping and dreading at the same time that it would be something so entirely fearful.

Green eyes, that fae shaded green that so many years ago seemed utterly impossible to even exist, stare up at him, the life slowly fading from the vivid color. There's that crooked smile on blue lips and an utterance of a single name, "Alfred…" And the eyes slip closed.

He can't think, he can't breathe – he can't do anything but stop and break down. There is something inside of him that snaps as he looks at his dying friend, the one he has feared to see or hear or touch upon one of these beds, bleeding and dying and never, ever saying goodbye. It's something frail and warm, and Alfred loses himself in the feeling as he bends over his friend, desperately pressing his scarred palms against the closing wound.

Magic is a tangible thing, Radu would tell him as he sat in his tower, hunched over books, murmuring notions and theories and logistics to himself. It comes in one form and channels into several focuses – it is that focus that makes magic possible and it is the same magic that Alfred feels within himself explode under his panic, surging through his dim focus like two massive hands, clawing, gripping, and grasping for the spirit that he knew to be of his only friend.

The hands seize Arthur (and he feels Arthur's very presence now, in those hands, within himself and himself within Arthur and he never wants it to leave if that means he can say a proper goodbye – to know he's safe and not dying on a barren bed), they pull the Captain into life, yanking and struggling against every odd. And just as he feels everything beginning to slide into place, his vision goes white and he hardly remembers falling to the dirty, bloody floor.

* * *

Alfred knows when he is in a dream. Sometimes it takes him a moment or several as he assesses the feeling of his own weightlessness in the slowly coloring void around him, but as soon as he recognizes his state of mind, he allows himself to succumb to the images and events that his consciousness creates for him. Radu had told him once that dreams made for unreliable divinations and Alfred was inclined to agree if some of them had not been so vivid.

He stands in the courtyard in spring, the peach trees shedding their pink petals in the soft breeze. Arthur stands across from him, his Captain's uniform covered in mud and blood, as well as Alfred's own jerkin and trousers. He doesn't know what to say now that he sees Arthur standing and alive. A simple greeting is inappropriate for the near decade that they hadn't spoken, and yet they are too distant for a familiar welcome. Arthur seems content in maintaining the silence as well, so Alfred watches, the pink blossoms he loved to chase a naïve child catching in his hair as he waits.

For a moment he thinks he sees something golden, something like a strand of thread between them before it snaps with a crisp hiss and Alfred falls backwards. The ground surges up to meet him and then disappears completely, allowing him to fall forever into a blank space, filled with darkness and nausea.

When Alfred wakes up next, every pore in his body screams at him from magical backlash. It takes hours for the pain to subside, slowly ebbing into a dull empty feeling. It's a dismal emotion and he's not sure what it's from, he just knows that he doesn't want to feel this way. He finally realizes that he's on one of the medical beds, a man with a mild head wound sleeping peacefully next to him.

The physician comes in to tend to him, massaging Alfred's temples and helping him sit to sip slowly at a bowl of cool water. "What happened?" he asks hoarsely, grasping the empty bowl in his cramped hands. "I only remember the hands…"

"Hands? Hm. Ah, well, I don't know about the hands, but…" he trails off, his own gnarled hands pushing Alfred's hair from his face, "the Captain didn't make it. You did everything you could, my boy, you did. The wound healed and his color pinked, but his spirit never returned. We waited for two days, but he never woke. You did wonderfully, but sometimes the Gods don't agree with magic."

Alfred stares blankly at the wall, unblinking and unresponsive. He only wanted to say goodbye, and now he is denied even that. Even the constellations hold more heartwarming stories than this. He looks up at the physician, a man he's come to care for and adore and solemnly asks, "Where is he buried?"

- End Chapter One -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _I really don't have much to say about any of this except thank you guys for the wonder reception of this fic. :U I hope it's still alright and stuff… ahhhh I dunno what to say. uwu


	3. Chapter Two: Lepus

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad - Netherlands

**Constellations**

_Chapter Two: Lepus_

There is a pit just outside the rocky hills of the small village, one that had been repurposed for the past two years to throw in the corpses of those who could not be saved. It is a gruesome sight and the smell of decay and sickness is more than enough to chase off even the most intent of invaders. Alfred stands at the edge of this pit, a cloth soaked in perfumes held up to his mouth and nose. His blue eyes scan over the rotting flesh and dirtied clothes, looking for the bloodied Captain's uniform and pale, pink complexion amongst the blue and green.

He knows that there is no way Arthur is dead – he knows so because it's too hard to accept otherwise. His heart leaps into his throat when he finally spots the torn red cape that Arthur was wearing when he was carried into the stagnant hut. He slides down into the pit, trying not to gag as the rancid smell overpowers the perfume of his cloth and rotting flesh squishes under his boots. He makes his way to Arthur, grabbing as much fabric of the Captain's collar as he can before beginning the slow, arduous task of dragging the man from the maggot infested pit.

Earlier the physician insisted that Arthur hadn't been there long, but even after five minutes Alfred finds it difficult to breathe or to keep from gagging. He has to drop the cloth from his mouth and nose to pull Arthur up the shifting rock edge to lay his old friend out on the ground. Alfred rolls Arthur over onto his back so he can get a clear look at his face.

"I'm so sorry," Alfred mutters as he brushes a squirming maggot from Arthur's greasy hair. "I should have tried harder, should have woke up sooner and stopped them from throwing you in the pit." He sighs as he begins to inspect Arthur's vitals, checking for breath and a steady pulse as he pulls off his satchel to retrieve a flask of water and a clean linen cloth. He begins cleaning Arthur's pink cheeks, clearing the skin from any foul substances that were likely wrought with disease. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Arthur only looks like he's sleeping. It's not a trick of the light or a façade of makeup. His chest rises and falls with even breaths and his heart beats rhythmically, but he simply doesn't wake. Alfred sits by his side, carefully cleaning him and brushing his hair as he stares into that familiar face, wondering what he should do or say if those fae green eyes are to ever open – or if they don't.

If Arthur leaves him then he has no one left in this world. When he was a child, Arthur was the only one that didn't want to use him, who only wanted to be his friend and talk about being a knight – Arthur was his hope on the days when he thought he couldn't bear disappointing Radu again. And even though Arthur had forgotten him easily enough, there was always a part of him that wanted to find someone just like his old friend.

"Arthur, you need to wake up," he pleads, tapping Arthur's rounded cheek to try and stimulate his senses. "They think you're dead, but you're not, right? You're a fighter – a warrior, that's what you always told me. You can't die. I haven't said goodbye."

Everything in his body hurts, both from the emotional strain and the magical backlash that leaves his joints creaking and muscles aching. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't know what to do. Healing was simple enough; mend the wounds, restore, revive, and renew. But loss is something he thought he had coped with long ago, and to choke in its face now – Alfred doesn't even have his courage left. He bends over Arthur, touching their foreheads together as his shoulders begin to shake and quiver with repressed sobs. "Goddamn you," he sobs out, "Goddamn you for dying like this." After everything he did to try and save Arthur, he just decides to not wake up. For the time being, Alfred lets his grief take hold, wracking his poor body with choked sobs and shivers of anger.

And when he feels he is almost completely spent of tears, something touches his cheek and Alfred reels back in shock. Arthur's vivid green eyes are opened ever so slightly, almost leering at Alfred as hot tears begin to wet the corners of his puffy eyes once again. "Rude," Arthur whispers, the corners of his pale lips barely upturned enough to show his amusement. Alfred curses something under his breath, quickly taking Arthur's hand into his and squeezing it before checking Arthur's vitals again. "Alfred… is that… you?"

"Yeah, it's me," he answers in a pinched tone, trying his best not to sniffle. "Who else would it be?" Arthur's breathing seems labored, but he has a pulse and Alfred isn't sure if he should be worried or not, so he grasps Arthur's hand once again and waits.

Arthur doesn't answer for a long time and simply stares off to the side. Finally his lips part in a sigh and he says, "What happened… to me? Am I at the capital? I… I just remember… the hands."

Alfred doesn't know what to say. Arthur saw the hands that reached into him on his deathbed, the ones that pulled him away from peace and the gate of the afterlife just so Alfred wouldn't have to see him leave again? Alfred purses his lips as his eyes downcast. What is he supposed to say? It's been nearly ten years and Arthur had almost died. He's not sure what protocol or manners to perform in such a situation, so he says something without thinking it through. "Have you ever heard the story of Lepus?"

There is a look of disbelief on Arthur's weary face before he closes his eyes with a strained sounding chuckle. "After all this time," he says hoarsely, "you still indulge in your stories." Arthur swallows thickly, his lips dry and nose running. "I'm tired."

Alfred looks up from Arthur, judging the distance from their spot on the rocky ground by the vile pit to the small hut on the hill by the village. "Don't sleep just yet, alright? I've got to get you to a bed."

"I can't move." Arthur sighs and his head falls back in exhaustion. "Not yet… too tired."

"You almost died," Alfred says with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't let you stand anyway. What kind of healer would I be if I put my patients into danger like that?"

He stands and quickly begins packing up his satchel once again. When he's sure he has everything, he unclips Arthur's cape from around his neck and gathers the two edges into his hands. Alfred slowly begins to drag Arthur through the rocks and dirt towards the village, purposefully ignoring Arthur's soft question of, "Healer?" as he goes along, making sure to mind pointy rocks or the occasional prickly plant.

Alfred knows he isn't exactly the strongest man around, and Arthur seems to grow heavier and heavier with every step that he drags his friend. He is thankful that no one sees them as he pulls Arthur up the hardened clay step to the door of his hut and drags him inside, and Alfred wants to keep it that way. As far as anyone else knew Arthur had died that night, and if they see him now they would accuse Alfred of bringing a corpse into his hut.

He helps Arthur onto his modest bedroll, making sure to remove the small dragon totem from underneath his pillow before Arthur rests his head upon it. "I don't have much better right now," he says wearily as he picks up a pail for water and a stiff cloth that he uses to bathe himself. "I'm going to get you a change of clothes and then I'll clean you up. You've been in that pit for too long, you could get sick."

"Hnn," is Arthur's pained response before he quickly drifts off into a wavering sleep of exhaustion.

Alfred simply sets to work, closing off his mind and allowing his fingers to pretend that Arthur was just another soldier that he had to help. He strips the Captain of his filthy clothes, fetches water and begins to clean what he can as Arthur murmurs feverish words in his sleep. When he is finished, he places a cool rag on his old friend's forehead and sits next to him, contemplating what to say when he wakes next.

* * *

When Arthur opens his eyes it is dark outside and he's wearing a simple pair of breeches and a linen jerkin. He manages to reach a hand up and rub at his face. Everything feels unexplainably heavy, as if his limbs are not his own and he's trying to maneuver another person's body. "Alfred?" he calls out softly as he makes an effort to sit up and look around. There is a simple blanket and a rolled up tunic next to him and it's the most pathetic makeshift bed he's ever seen – even for battlefield standards.

The shredded cloth covering the door of the hut parts open and Alfred steps into the hut. He looks worn and tired as he stoops in the corner to wash his hands in the bucket of water. "Oh," he says with a slight start as he turns to inspect Arthur's progress. "You're awake already. You should lie back down."

Arthur only attempts to shrug but finds that his muscles are too rigid. "Alfred, what's going on?" His voice cracks and he smothers a cough with his hands. "What happened to me?"

There is a long sigh from Alfred and Arthur can't believe how much his friend has changed in these years. He's tall now, with small, swelling muscles that speak of hard times outside of his tower. He wants to ask about everything, but there is no time. He needs to return to his post, to fight, to do his duty, not lie around like a gimp as he is nursed to health.

"It was a belly wound," Alfred explains carefully, sitting cross-legged on his own blanket next to Arthur. "It was just under your ribs, with a spear – or so I was told. You were bleeding fast and half dead by the time they got you here. I had only been here a few weeks and your men must have been desperate because I'm sure they hadn't heard about me yet." He twines his fingers together, staring at his lap as he speaks. "When I saw it was you… And then… then you said my name…" Alfred sighs. "I couldn't let you die."

Arthur doesn't say anything for a few moments, letting the information sink in. He glances over to Alfred. "What happened to your hands?"

Startled, Alfred presses his palms against his knees, hiding his scars from view. "That's… a story I'd rather not tell right now." Quickly he gives his knees a slap and stands up to grab his discarded satchel. "Anyway, I'm sure you're starving. I brought you some bread – I'm pretty sure you'll be able to keep it down."

There are so many unspoken questions between them, but nothing is said as Arthur slowly eats while Alfred fetches more water to drink. Alfred fills a wooden cup with the cool water from the well at the base of the hill he lives on and hands it to Arthur with a frown. "Do you feel sick at all? I wouldn't be surprised to find that you caught something in that pit."

"Pit?" Alfred makes a disgusted face but doesn't explain, so Arthur finishes his meal in a contemplative silence. "I have to get back to my troops. They need me."

"I…" Alfred sighs heavily, leaning back so he can stare at the thatched ceiling of his hut. "They think you're dead, Arthur. They left yesterday after giving you a quick service. They said there was no time for a proper one, and that they would send a letter to your father so he can retrieve your body for a real funeral." His fingers wind into the thin fabric of the blanket he is sitting on and his brows furrow in thought. "Radu never taught me much on military protocol or anything, but I'm sure it would cause some kind of havoc if you showed up after you've been proclaimed killed in the service of your country."

Alfred waits for Arthur to say something, for the military career man to turn and yell at him or argue with his logic, or simply say that he never wants to see the healer's face again. But Arthur doesn't. Instead his hands wring around the wooden cup tightly as he stares at the water inside intently. "What is the story of Lepus?"

"Wha – Oh." Alfred bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly. "There actually isn't much of a story behind Lepus. He's the rabbit of the moon, you know, and he was sent to the heavens to forever be hunted by the dogs of Orion. Lepus… always is running across the sky. Poor bunny, don't you think? He can't even defend himself, just has to run and run and run."

The Captain is silent as he frowns. "That's a morbid thought," he says, setting his cup aside to stretch out his fingers and wrists, hoping to gain more control and flexibility of his muscles.

"It's a morbid life."

They sit in silence and Alfred hates the quiet around them. When they were younger the only silences were the companionable ones, the kind that were comfortable and easy to slip out of and into again. These ones were strange and unsettling, as if every movement of Arthur's body is an unspoken word or a signal that he cannot understand but should, even though he knows it's likely not. "You need to sleep," Alfred decides to say and gently pushes on Arthur's chest to make him lay down. "I'm… I'm going to finish an errand. When I get back, you should be sleeping."

He waits for Arthur to settle into his blankets and close his fae green eyes before he slips out of the hut to sit on one of the few grassy patches the slope of the hill has to offer. There are greenish colored clouds covering the expanse of the night sky, the waning moon adding a soft light to the sickly color. Alfred frowns at the night sky and leans back. He hates the cloudy nights when the stars are hidden, especially on the nights when he wants to think, such as tonight. Alfred lifts a hand towards the sky, taking his index finger and draws out an invisible pattern above his head, unsure of what constellation he is attempting to draw or create before he gives up and decides to stick with one that he knew the best and cherished.

With a flex of his fingers and flick of his wrist, Alfred summons the sparks of fire that he's been conjuring since he was a child to draw in the sky. It's a motion that's familiar and easy so he doesn't think as the small speckles of fire jump from his fingertips to hover delightedly in the air. And as he's drawing the final "star", Alfred has a sudden moment of clarity, and he can't quite describe the feeling. It's as if he knows what it is to _be _for a brief moment or two; what it is like to burn and devour everything in his path, to understand how it feels to light a path or warm a hearth.

What he doesn't expect is for the final sparks to flare from his hands, to go from wafting embers to bright, scorching bursts of flame that he had only seen Radu perform as a simple demonstration. Alfred yelps as the fire swells into the air and floats back down to the earth to catch on the sleeve of Alfred's robe.

"Fuck!" he yells as the threadbare fabric of his sleeve burns easily while he flails his arm and rolls on the ground to put it out as quickly as he can. And just like that the moment of clarity is lost and Alfred is left to stare at his ruined robe sleeve with a stupefied look.

There is a clamor and Alfred looks up with wide eyes to see a panicked Arthur toppled over on the clay step of his hut. "What happened?" the Captain asks, clearly out of sorts. His green eyes are unfocused as he blinks rapidly, grasping at the ground for some sort or purchase that he can't seem to find. "Are you alright?"

"I… yes, I'm fine." He stands quickly and takes off his robe, draping it over his arm as he walks over to Arthur who is still on the ground in confusion. "Didn't I tell you to go to sleep?" he asks as he helps Arthur to stand on shaky legs.

"I was – I tried, I did," Arthur says dumbly as Alfred carefully brings him back into the hut. "I was going to but then it was _hot_. It was hot and hot and then you yelled." Arthur moans to himself and presses a hand to his sweaty forehead. "But then it's not hot – not any longer. I don't understand."

Alfred helps Arthur to sit and fixes the bedroll that had been mussed in the Captain's momentary panic. "You might've caught something after all," he murmurs as he tucks the extra blanket around Arthur's shoulders and prepares a new damp cloth to press against his forehead. He watches as Arthur simply begins to drift off into much needed sleep without another word. Whatever is happening, he doesn't like it – doesn't like the fact that the monotony in his life is being stripped from him ever so slowly. And he definitely doesn't like that he's completely unsure of himself or what to do or say every moment that Arthur is conscious. This shift pulls him back to days that he would rather never remember, the times spent alone in his darkened study praying that he wouldn't fail his mentor or his King or his only friend out at war.

He spends the night sitting at Arthur's side, pondering over the evening's events. Alfred knows something is wrong with him, or perhaps it's just different, but he cannot put his finger on it. Something has changed and it has altered his abilities in a way that he's both uncomfortable with and excited about. The mistake he made only a few hours ago was the most black magic he'd ever performed in his entire life and he's not sure if he ever wants it to happen again – at least not in that capacity.

And still there are too many unanswered questions plaguing him. He finds that he can't sleep, not due to the lack of bedding, but because the most prominent question will not – _cannot _– leave his troubled mind.

Why?

* * *

Alfred has only been caring for Arthur for two days when the physician begins to grow suspicious, or at least that's how Alfred sees the squint of the elderly man's eyes and thoughtful strokes of his beard with gnarled fingers as he stares long and hard at Alfred as he works. He tries to convince himself that he's being paranoid but it's hard with the man always over his shoulder and he finds himself wavering and distracted from his tasks of healing.

It is the peak of the afternoon when the elderly physician approaches him, touching his shoulder gently with an age spotted hand. "Something is on your mind, young one," is all he says when Alfred jumps at the touch.

"I – o-oh." Alfred finishes washing his hands, drying them on a stiff cloth with a sigh. "You can tell, huh?" he asks evasively, fishing for any information as to what the old man thinks he is thinking.

"It's obvious. Is it because it has been so cloudy as of late? Everyone in the village knows how you love to stargaze. It relaxes you, does it not?"

Alfred lets loose a breathy chuckle. "Oh, yes…" he trails off with a thoughtful frown. "It's hard to relax sometimes; I just like the peace the unchanging sky brings. Usually… well… I don't know. Sometimes I feel like cloudy nights are a bad omen, but maybe that's just because I like the stars so much, hm?"

The elderly physician laughs, his head tilting back as the whooping sound pours from him. "There is always that chance, but I wouldn't read much into it." He smiles, his teeth in impoverished disarray that makes the gesture more slovenly. "Why don't you have your afternoon rest? Collect your thoughts and then I would like you to help me reset a broken limb."

"Okay, alright, I'll do that." Alfred smiles fondly at the man before he leaves. There is a disgusting feeling rollicking around in the cradle of his stomach and he's afraid of what it might mean. He should know better than to lie.

* * *

When the sun begins to drop behind the curtain of mountains in the west, Alfred helps Arthur to stand and stretch muscles that had stiffened during his bedridden state. Arthur is vastly different than Alfred remembers. He's colder and quieter, the politeness that had been drilled into him as a child no longer welcoming but instead it's forced and uncomfortable as he tries to talk with Alfred about inconsequential things such as the weather. Alfred also hates to admit that Arthur has become a very handsome man (and he had been jealous enough when they were younger, life is cruel to him it seems). Arthur is handsome, courageous, and a leader, while Alfred is none of these things. However, Alfred is hardly surprised.

"Does anything hurt?" he asks as Arthur stretches the well-developed muscles in his legs and abdomen, using Alfred as a mobile support.

Arthur stares past Alfred and at the plain walls of the hut. Alfred grows concerned by the silence and grasps Arthur's wrist to pull him closer so he can press his palm against the Captain's forehead, but unexpectedly Arthur catches Alfred's hand and examines his scars with a surly expression. "Why aren't you at the capital?" he asks Alfred, puzzled, "Why are you here and… and a healer of all things, Alfred? What happened to you?"

"Nothing happened to me," he says with a frown, snatching away his hand only to catch Arthur as he stumbles forward due to a lack of support. "I'm sorry."

The Captain only shakes his head. "Don't be. It's not my place to question you. We're far from friends, I understand that, but it's hard… hard to not care." Arthur's head hangs as he tries to think of something else to say but only sighs and continues with his train of thought. "Why aren't you at the capital with Radu, Alfred?"

Alfred struggles to find the right words to say. His mouth opens and closes and he's on the brink of breaking down and telling Arthur about everything that had happened since the day he left on horseback without letting Alfred have his final farewell (is all he had wanted was to be there with a goodbye and hug, to stand at the castle gates and watch Arthur leave until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon). But before he can, there is an unsettling noise outside and Alfred freezes in his spot.

There are muffled screams just beyond the cloth covering the windows and doors of his hut and Alfred pulls Arthur to a window so he can rip down the fabric. Outside a horrific scene is revealed. The village below them is burning, soldiers in gold and silver armor raiding homes and capturing civilians. Alfred can't react, doesn't know how to. The war has finally found him, and even though he is overly familiar with its aftereffects, it is an entirely different thing to be trapped by it.

"Alfred!" Arthur shakes him, grabbing his chin in a harsh grip and forcing his blue eyes away from the destruction below. "We have to leave! Don't just stand there like a bloody fool! Where's my sword?"

The thatched roofs of the village huts burn quickly and assuredly, creating a quiet roar or destruction and heat, the black smoke wafting upwards to choke at the reddening sky. Alfred's body feels as if it's moving on its own as he hurries to fetch the sword that he managed to salvage from the medical hut upon Arthur's request. Arthur leans against the wall, fastening his jerkin and weapon properly against his hip while Alfred begins stuffing all of his possessions in his travel pack, making sure to take what little food he has at hand and his full canteen of water. "Hurry," Arthur urges him and begins to hobble outside, ducking as well as he can and making his way down the opposite side of the hill as the village is.

"He-hey!" Alfred whisper-shouts at Arthur as he scrambles after the soldier, afraid that he might alert the attention of the men who are currently burning down the village he had grown to enjoy being a part of. "Don't move so fast! You're not well enough to be moving around so much!"

Arthur sends Alfred a narrow look, one that has hardened with years of war, training, and death. "It's do or die, Alfred. And I have no intention of dying at this very moment. Not after surviving that last bit."

Alfred doesn't say anything, only hurries to Arthur's side and slings the Captain's arm behind his neck to help the man walk faster down the rocky hill. A particularly desperate scream pierces the evening air and Alfred is suddenly very aware of himself and what is happening. "How did those soldiers get here?" he demands as they begin to pick up a limped trot once the ground evens out. "What the hell happened at the border, Arthur? Those people are _dying_!"

"And what are you going to do about it?" Arthur barks; his voice drops smoothly into a deep, authoritative tone that speaks of years in command. He stops, causing Alfred to stumble. "Alfred, you're a magician! You _can_ do something about it! I bet it's less than a single platoon; oh it's so very likely the case – maybe thirty men! Alfred!"

"Just keep running." Alfred jerks Arthur back into their stunted run. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Alfred knows it's coming and cuts him off. "No, Arthur, no. There is _nothing _I can do. Goddammit I wish there was, but there's _not_. Okay? Just… hurry before they see us. Don't stop. Do not stop."

Confusion is evident on Arthur's face, but he does as he's told and keeps his pace with Alfred, occasionally looking over his shoulder until he can see the hut on the hill being burned in the distance as the sky purples and stars peek out from the thick black claws of suffocating smoke.

So they are tasked with doing nothing – nothing to save the innocents or repel the evil that has swooped down from the Drachman border; nothing but the morbid task of running.

- End Chapter Two -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Many thanks to Michelle/Cheru for betaing this while I work on it for NaNoWriMo! :)


	4. Chapter Three: Octans

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad – Netherlands, Emma – Belgium, Caleb – Molossia

**Constellations**

_Chapter Three: Octans_

Alfred is used to the life of a vagabond, endlessly roaming the lands with nothing more than what he is able to carry on his own back. Arthur, however, has lived the life of a warrior since a young age. There is very little traveling as a soldier, only the long march to the next destination and then to camp in the same place for months or even years at a time. He can tell that Alfred is annoyed each time he needs to stop and rest, and then feels obligated to blame it on the stiff feeling in his legs.

They have been making their way through the rocky slopes, prickled with small grass patches and fat, rounded cacti, for nearly two days in silence. Neither knows what to say beyond the tending of Arthur's wounds, and the quick consultation of the starry sky to make sure they're heading south and not north into Drachma itself.

On the second night, Arthur decides it's safe to start a small fire (because if there had been any chance the soldiers had saw them, they would have easily caught them by now. What had happened that night could not have been more than mindless slaughter) so Alfred does his best to create a few sparks on dried grasses if only to humor Arthur and Arthur eventually finds himself staring into the small, licking flames with an absent fixation.

"I am Captain Arthur Kirkland," he says as he continues to stare into the fire. He doesn't know what he's saying nor does he care, he just knows that _something _has to be said because the silence is eating away at him even if he's not sure as to why. Alfred looks at him from across the fire, his fingers peeling at the thick skin of an orange fruit as he waits for Arthur to say more. "I was promoted to the rank of Captain three years ago by the King himself. Many said it was due to my father's influence as the Duke, but I assure you that my father cares less about my military success as he does prepping his eldest to take over the Kirkland Estate."

Alfred dips his head. "I know," he mutters at his hands. "When your letters stopped… I would ask him for news – a-about you, you know? He never had any. He would just say, 'Don't worry lad, he's not dead yet.'" He peels off a strip of the fruit's skin and tosses it to the side with an upset noise. "I stopped talking to him about four years ago. Congratulations on making Captain, I guess."

"I apologize about the letters. Once Sir Conrad found out I was intent on a career, he made sure I had little time for anything else. I know it's not much of an excuse, but it's undeniably the only available truth I have." Alfred sighs and splits the fruit in half, reaching over the small embers to hand a piece to Arthur. "Thank you. Alfred, where did you become so worldly? Two days in this dry land… most of my men would think they were dying by now."

"I've been traveling for a long time – even before I met you. But I've been doing a lot of wandering this past year. Sometimes life needs a kind of aimlessness to it. You knew what you wanted in life – or maybe you knew what your father wanted. I didn't – still don't. But hey, maybe I will if I just look around, right?"

Arthur frowns as he eats his half of the fruit and rolls his shoulders as they begin to cramp from his lack of proper posture. "So… You completed your apprenticeship with Radu and decided to simply leave? Under the guise as a traveling healer – am I understanding this correctly?"

"No." Alfred pushes a chunk of fruit into his mouth to keep himself from speaking, but he grows unnerved as Arthur continues to stare unblinkingly into the dimming fire. For a brief moment he thinks he sees something glitter and assumes it's a wayward ember caught in the wind, but there is a pulling sensation in his chest, aching and tugging him towards a lost and confused state of mind. "I never completed my apprenticeship," he finds himself blurting out as his chest squeezes in an anxiety that he knows is not his own. "It doesn't work that way for magicians. Usually you become your own magician when your mentor dies or proclaims that he has nothing left to teach you. Radu's alive and I know for a fact he still hadn't taught me as much alchemy as he would have liked to."

"I don't understand." But Alfred can't tell that Arthur does understand, his vivid green eyes shutting with disbelief as he shakes his head and sends his wild golden locks into further disarray. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Must we talk about this?" he asks huffily and throws another broken twig into the tiny fire. "What's done is done and there's nothing I can do about it, okay? I have… There are more important things to worry about right now, like what are we going to do? Where are we going to go?"

Arthur seems to mull these questions over as his eyes shift from the fire to the sky with an exaggerated tilt of his head. "I'm assuming going back to the capital is out of the question."

"You would assume correctly."

There is an irate roll of green eyes. "Yes, of course. It wouldn't do to have dear old father find out his son's 'Not dead yet', as you say." Arthur purses his lips in thought. "Perhaps..." he sighs and looks back to Alfred with a steadfast gaze. "I do not know what plans you had with life, Alfred, but mine have always been to protect Flamberge with my life and even though I may be perceived as a dead man, I will not let my country fall to the hands of those… those _bastards_ – not while I still draw breath." He watches Alfred's shifting expression carefully, waiting for some form of protest, but when he receives none, he continues. "I know there are several resistance groups along the border towns and cities – civilian militia of sorts. And unfortunately the Drachman forces have been encroaching upon our lands; the army is growing weary and thin, and in some cases these brave civilians are the only defense we have left." Arthur's green eyes flashed resolutely. "I want to help them."

Alfred doesn't respond immediately. He doesn't know what to make of the request or if it's a good idea at all, but he looks down at his scared palms and curls his hands into fists as they begin to burn with an old pain. Alfred knows that sometimes in life there wasn't a choice; there was doing and there was not doing. The life of vagrancy is a tireless one, and it suited his listless soul. But here was Arthur with a goal – a _purpose_ – and he found himself drawn to it as easily as when he was a child.

"Okay," he says finally, as if his opinion would change Arthur's mind in the least. "Let me help you." He frowns at nothing in particular and tries to shrug away the insecure feeling that plagues him. "As you know, I have nothing to hold me back. I can get you into towns without suspicion or question – I'm a healer and all I have to do is say you're my assistant or a patient. I mean, maybe you don't want discrepancy, but the easiest way to gain anyone's trust is to save the life of someone they find important."

Out of the blue Arthur chuckles softly, the sound slowly beginning to crescendo after he gives a small snort. "You're exactly the same!" he exclaims as the fire goes out at last, the last of the embers smothering in the light breeze. "You're still the same conniving little shit, aren't you?"

Alfred scoffs in disbelief. "A – a _what_?" Arthur's face is filled with nothing but mirth and Alfred can't help but to be overcome with laughter as well. "I admit I've never been called that before, but… it's not far from the truth." He grins and shakes his head. "Hey Arthur?"

His old friend inhales deeply, catching his breath and stretching his limbs out in front of him. "Hm?" he hums contentedly, slipping backwards and pulling a tattered blanket behind his head to use as a pillow.

"Despite everything," Alfred pauses to examine his knuckles as if he must keep a disinterested façade, despite the fact that Arthur cannot see him, "I'm glad to see you again."

Arthur smiles and points up to the sky, drawing imaginary shapes above his head and simply says, "You too, Alfred. You too."

* * *

Traveling is easier after that night. There is no longer the heavy feeling of unspoken questions to bog them down. They have a singular focus and as Arthur's muscles limbers up, he also begins to pick up survival tips from Alfred as they traverse across the rocky terrain. He watches in a mute fascination as Alfred cuts open the small cacti with a practiced precision and fills their canteen. In camp they relied heavily on supply shipments of food and drink, and what they could get from the nearby village. Never had he thought to rely on nature itself.

"Radu taught me a lot of things," Alfred explains at one point as he pulls a piece of bread in half. "Sometimes… Sometimes I think he knew I would leave someday – maybe not how I did, but he taught me the kinds of things that keep you alive." He chuckles. "That's why he started to teach me the constellations, you know – for navigation. He just didn't expect me to like it so much after the basic lessons."

Arthur takes his share of the bread with a slight smile. "Yes, I remember. Your idea of a parting gift was a school lesson. Charming, really." He tears the meal into small pieces, chewing on them thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Now that I recall," he says as he plays with the crust between stiff fingers, "You never said goodbye. It was 'I'll see you later' – not farewell. It's strange. You were right, even though I'm sure you hadn't any idea how long 'later' would be."

"Yeah." Alfred coughs into a curled fist before clearing his throat and hopefully the awkward comment from his mind as well. "So if we continue heading northeast from here we'll run across at least a road. When we get to the town, what's our plan of action? I doubt you can storm in demanding to see the militia."

"I… well…" Arthur visibly falters. "I hadn't thought… well to be honest I thought _you _had a plan."

Alfred chuckles before heaving his travel gear onto his back, creating a wordless signal that their stop is over. "I do, actually. I just wanted to see if you had one."

"You are absolutely impossible." But Arthur is smiling his crooked smile as he falls into step next to Alfred and Alfred can't help but grin at his own feet as the quiet around them is comfortable for the first time. They slip in and out of conversation, speaking softly of the things Alfred had learned from Radu about surviving in their current clime and Alfred is pleased to see that Arthur is quick to learn by observation.

When they find the dusty road, lined with white, dirt covered bricks, Arthur's relief is obvious and Alfred can't blame the soldier either. For someone who strives on organization and the chain of command, wandering listlessly and without true direction must have been nerve wracking; and before Arthur can grow too weary of where they are (or are not), just as the sun begins to set they can see the faintest tops of mud and stone buildings on the horizon.

"Let's make a camp here, just off to the side," Alfred says with a shrug. "It's always best to wander in when the sun is out, makes you seem less suspicious. There are posers and snake oil salesmen, you know? You have to put your best foot forward."

"You've done this quite a lot, I see," Arthur points out as he helps Alfred set up a quick camp. "Do you have a greater livelihood as a healer than a magician?"

Alfred only grimaces at the question. "Perhaps if I was a healer for a king, then yes. Traveling healers, though? I get paid in respect and sometimes that's all you need."

Arthur doesn't argue on that point. During his career he had found out quickly that good connections and respect in all the right places got a man very, very far. So instead he wraps himself into the thin blanket, allowing Alfred to have the bedroll tonight, and tries to make himself comfortable as he stares up at the night sky. The moon is bright and Arthur adjusts the rolled trousers beneath his head as he listens to Alfred settle into the bedroll. "I don't believe I ever said thank you," Arthur says quietly.

The healer rolls over to stare at Arthur with confusion as he gazes into the sky. "For what?"

"For saving my life. I'm sure it wasn't an easy feat, and there was likely a price to pay and for that, I'm sorry. If that's the case, do let me know if there is any way I can repay you." He smiles weakly. "However it seems you're going to continue helping me, with this resistance that you likely find to be nonsense, I'm sure." Arthur picks at an unraveling thread of the blanket, biting his lip when it comes undone too far and tucks his hands back beneath the fabric. "You don't have to."

"I know." Alfred shrugs as Arthur's vivid green eyes finally fall on him. "And I'm helping you because I _want _to, so don't get any ideas in your head. I mean, if you have to, think of it this way; I help you now and then later, when you're in a much better position, you might be able to help me. And if not, think of it as a favor to an old friend." Alfred reaches out of his bedroll and softly hits Arthur's shoulder. "What are friends for, right?"

Arthur chuckles with a shake of his head. "This goes above and beyond 'old friends', but still, thank you Alfred. I owe you a great debt."

"Anytime, Arthur, anytime."

* * *

The town is bustling with morning life when Alfred and Arthur stroll into the open markets. Arthur sticks close to Alfred as children and women with baskets of food weave their way in and around them as they walk and there's something about the lively atmosphere that puts Arthur into a kind of calm, despite everything. These people go on with their busy lives, even though the war has ravaged the land and stolen the lives of so many – it was nice to see that even though the worst was happening just on the border, these people lived on. This was what he and his men fought for.

Alfred stops at a vendor's stall, picking up a warm loaf of bread and handing the owner a coin. "Can you tell me where I can find a healer?" he asks calmly, tugging on Arthur's sleeve. "My friend has been ill recently and I'm worried he might have a heat sickness."

The woman behind the stall gives Arthur a sympathetic look and Arthur can tell that heat sickness might be a common occurrence in this region (He'd seen it a few times in the camp, but he'd never had the time to fully understand what it was and how it happened – just ordered the medics to do their best to prevent it from happening). So he does his best to give a weak cough and rub his forehead in a rather dramatic manner. "Oh, yes, you poor dears. The nearest healer house is Emma's. You'll find her just at the end of the market – there. It's the one with the blue door." The woman smiles at Arthur and says. "Take care of yourself dear. Times are hard and your health is important."

"Of course ma'am," Arthur croaks out, unsure if his failing voice is either a façade or the surprise of such kindness. He hurries after Alfred as the blond makes his way into the crowd to follow the vendor's directions. "There seems to be no lack of friendliness," he says with a cough. "Not very used to that, I daresay."

Alfred laughs softly. "Oh yes, you see that often in the smaller towns – and even more so from those who have wares to sell." They follow the curve of mud and stone carved buildings, the windows open for ventilation and colorful clothes hung over the doorways to liven up their small shops. Alfred finally stops at a door, one that seems to have been hastily painted blue with a scratchy cloth. He knocks three times before pushing the light door open and steps inside, Arthur in tow.

Inside the small healer's shop smells of sandalwood and heavy mints for stomachache teas, crooked shelves are lined with various corked bottles with a multitude of concoctions within. "Ah," Alfred says lightly, "Someone who is much more interested in alchemy than I ever was."

There is a rustling from rooms further in and a stout woman with curly blond hair and a curled pout on her lips stumbles hurriedly into the shop front. "Sorry, sorry," she rattles away, straightening her ruffled, yet dirty, attire. "I've been horribly busy; I hope you weren't waiting long. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Are you Emma by any chance?" Alfred asks casually, letting his blue eyes wander over the various tonics on display while Arthur stands in the corner feeling very out of place but unwilling to ruin Alfred's moment.

"I am, and if you're looking for a love potion or a cure-all, you've come to the wrong place. I'm a healer, not a witch.

At that, Alfred bursts out into loud guffaws. "See Arthur, this is why I didn't want to get into alchemy. People think you're crazy!" He turns and smiles genially at the female healer despite the pulled scowl that has appeared on her face. "Actually, my name is Alfred and I'm a traveling healer and I would like to offer you my services."

Emma's nose upturns slightly, her hair sweeping over her shoulders with the slow movement. "I see. And who is this with you then?"

"That's Arthur," Alfred says with another smile, pulling Arthur forward to sling his arm around the soldier's strong shoulders. "He's my assistant and guard all put into one. If his being armed makes you uncomfortable I can ask him to remove his sword."

"A guard?" Emma asks incredulously. "That's absolutely ridiculous."

Alfred only makes a face, his arm still around Arthur as he holds out his free hand, holding his palm up and curling his fingers sharply. "It's not ridiculous with this war. Not when everyone sees you as a threat – or a tool." And with an exhalation of breath his hand fills with the small sparks he was fond of summoning, the embers spilling from between his fingers to float towards the floor before dissolving completely. They're brighter than they usually are and Alfred can faintly feel their heat in his cupped palm cascading to the floor like miniature falling stars, and somehow he's sure if he tries hard enough, he could easily make this sparks into a full-fledged fire. Instead he stops, closing his hand to stop the magical flow. He makes a show of checking the floor and his robes saying, "Nothing on fire? Good. Hate it when that happens."

Emma's hands are on her hips, her frilled blue robes pushed back to reveal her simple shirt and trousers. "I see. So you're one of those mages, hm? Decided to use your gifts for good? I can hardly believe that."

"It's true ma'am," Arthur cuts in suddenly, clearing his throat when both Alfred and Emma turn to look at him. "He saved my life." Quickly he yanks up his tunic to reveal the long white scar on his abdomen that Alfred couldn't rid him of (but Arthur wouldn't want him to anyway – it was a constant reminder of what had happened and how close he had been to death). "He pulled me straight from the arms of the White Lady, ma'am. I could have died right there on the battlefield if it weren't for him."

Alfred's brows tip in worry at the slight lie, but Emma reaches up to rub her chin. "You're a soldier?"

"Was, ma'am. They left me for dead – as I should be, mind you. I have more loyalties to this man than my entire regiment." Arthur pauses, pulling down his shirt with a thoughtful look. "However… I'll do all I can to stop those Drachman soldiers from taking away my home. That's why we're here. To help."

"I follow the war," Alfred explains carefully, letting his arm fall from Arthur's shoulders with a heavy frown. These days however, it seems as if the war follows him, ravaging more and more, taking and taking no matter how hard he tries to stem its violent path. "I help the soldiers and neighboring doctors. The more soldiers we have to fight – the more men that return to their wives and children after all this is over…" Alfred sighs. "The better off we'll be, I think."

Emma steps towards them, tilting her head slightly as she, in turn, peers into their eyes, as if searching for any lie or flaw of character as she approached. She grabs Alfred's chin and inspects if face, moving this head this way and that before nodding. "There is only so much one person can do in this world," she agrees softly, dropping her hold on Alfred's chin. "But sometimes it only takes one person to start something revolutionary. Follow me – both of you."

With an exchanged look of curiosity, Alfred and Arthur follow Emma into her shop, pushing past a door covered in a shredded rug decorated with strings of colorful beads and bells. "These are all ex-soldiers," Emma says quietly as the walk into a narrow room with beds pushed up against either side. There were at least twelve men on the beds, most dozing peacefully with obvious injuries and trauma. "I'm merely a alchemist who specializes with medicines. Coughs, mumps, and flus are what I can cure best. But these poor men… the most I can do is set their broken bones and giving out numbing potions. Sometimes the priest comes to pray for them, but usually it's not enough."

She ushers Alfred to the side of a man with an obvious head injury. "This is Sir Morgon," she says, pushing Alfred onto his knees next to the bed. "He's the leader of our local militia. Without him there is so little organization among them, that I fear if we were to be raided, our town would quickly fall to the Drachman."

Arthur bounced on his heels at the news and quickly says, "Alfred! How long will it take to heal the man? Until he's fully capable of his duties?"

Alfred gives Arthur and incredulous glance before he touches his hands to Sir Morgon's temples, closing his eyes in concentration. He thinks of flesh and how it is to be – to live, breathe, and bleed. His magic flows through the man before him, seeping into his blood and gently touches all that is wrong and broken. He tries to exert himself further when there is simply too much damage in all the wrong places – old and festering, leaving layers for him to chip away at. After a few minutes he leans away from the man and rubs at his eyes beneath his dirty spectacles. "It will take a while," he finally answers, standing up to roll the tense muscles of his shoulders. "How long has he been like this?"

"A week or two at most. He was trampled by one of the farmer's oxen, poor creatures were startled and oh, it was a terrible accident." Nervously Emma bites on one of her nails, her expression perplexed and sad. "He's going to make it, isn't he?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he'll be alright. He's lucky that his head didn't split from the sounds of it." He sighs and returns to Arthur's side looking tired and worn just from that one round. "In the meantime, Arthur here used to be a Captain for the Flamberge army. I'm sure he'd be able to help the locals prepare for battle – he's seen a lot of it over the past ten years. Is there a second in command? Maybe at least someone Sir Morgon trusted?"

For a moment Emma looks leery of the prospect, but then she only nods decisively. "Yes, a man named Caleb. He owns the inn down the road from here." She leads them both back out into the shop front, rummaging around a desk for a piece of parchment and something to write with. "He's a good man," she says quickly and adds, "No matter how abrasive he seems at first. Give him this letter and he should give you a room and threat or two – that's just what he does."

Alfred accepts the note with a gracious smile, bidding Emma a good day as he and Arthur step back out into the busy marketplace. "Huh, that went surprisingly well."

The Captain makes a gruff noise, causing Alfred to laugh. "I doubt anything is that easy," he says as they head down the road towards the inn – easily spotted by a hanging wooden sign above the door declaring that there are available rooms. "If the military taught me anything, it's that very lesson. Don't let your guard down around this 'innkeeper'."

"O-oh… You don't think he'll actually do anything, do you? I mean, I'm trying to save his friend!"

Arthur rolls his neck and suppresses a yawn. "Yes, well, I'm not saying he'll do anything, but if he tries, I'll run him through. Simple as that." And to compliment his harsh statement, Arthur grips the leather wrapped hilt of his sword tightly, listening to the material creak under his grasp before dropping his hold.

"Hold on." They stop just outside of the inn's doors and Alfred unrolls the letter from Emma to scan her hastily scrawled message. "Okay, I just wanted to make sure she wasn't going to screw us over or something really fast." Arthur gives a nod of approval before they push their way into the musty inn.

"Hey! What're you two doing in here?" Alfred jumps at the sudden voice, inadvertently moving himself closer to Arthur. "Well? Don't just stand there like idiots, huh? This is an inn, so you better have some money!"

There is a huffy man standing behind a wooden bar, a woman sits in the corner, her head bouncing up and down as she fights a drunken sleep, a frothing mug settled between her fingers. Arthur clears his throat, taking the note from Alfred's hands and steps up to the bar. "The healer Emma sent us here," he says in a bored manner and pushes the rolled note towards the innkeeper.

The brunet innkeeper snatched the parcel from Arthur's hand with an indignant sniff, his brown eyes reading the note quickly, squinting more and more in disbelief as he read. The man bit his lower lip, giving Alfred and Arthur a glower before setting the note on the bar counter. "Alright, fine. So I gotta room for ya, but you'll have to share 'coz I ain't wastin' more money on you two then I have to."

He huffs again, jerking his head for them to follow and leads them up a set of creaking wooden stairs to push open a door. "This is gunna be your room. Fight over the bed and whatever. I'm going to see Emma right this minute, so you'll have the chance to run your stupid asses out of town if this is all a shitty lie. You got me?"

Alfred only smiles at the ruffled innkeeper sweetly. "Thank you, we understand and we'll be right here when you get back."

"Damn right you will be," the man mutters before stalking out of the room, making sure to slam the door behind him.

Arthur glances at the only bed in the room with a sigh. "You get the bed," he says with a light smile. "You're doing all the work anyway. You need the rest."

Alfred moans happily, dropping his satchel and pack to flop onto the starched blankets of the bed. "Oh god, it feels _so _good," he groans, rolling further into the sheets. "Arthur you're the best – the absolute _best_."

Arthur finds himself smirking as he picks up Alfred's mess to layout the bedroll and extra blanket for himself. He looks fondly up at Alfred and lightly says, "What are friends for?"

- End Chapter Three -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Ahhh thanks to everyone that's helping me out through this nanowrimo project. :) Y'all are so great, thank you! Also thank you to Michelle/Cheru for betaing this as I truck ahead. :o


	5. Chapter Four: Ursa Minor

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad – Netherlands, Emma – Belgium, Caleb – Molossia

**Constellations**

_Chapter Four: Ursa Minor_

Alfred looks to Arthur with a smile. "You're really good at this you know?"

"Oh?" Arthur shrugs and stares down at his hands. Hours earlier the innkeeper had returned, his tanned face flushed with what looked to be a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction, sending up a cute barmaid with a meal and two sturdy flagons of ale. "How do you mean?" Alfred laughs and rolls back onto the bed with a serene expression. "It was one mug of ale; don't tell me it's already gone to your head."

"Nah," Alfred grumbles with a wave of his hand. "I'm just warm and happy and this bed is really nice. First time I've had a bed in... I dunno! Almost a year maybe?" He glances to Arthur, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. "Do you want the bed, too? I don't want to be a bed-hog or anything."

When Arthur only chuckles and shakes his head, Alfred grins further. "You're enjoying it far more than I ever would." He looks up at the mold-stained ceiling as he lies back onto the spread bedroll. It's only a few hours past noon, but their bodies are heavy with exhaustion and their new accommodation brings the feeling out further. "You should at least take a nap," Arthur suggests to the healer in the bed. "We can visit Sir Morgon again tonight if you're feeling up to it. I feel that that the harder it seems we're trying, the better off we're going to be."

"Yeah." He can hear Alfred sigh as he pulls the blankets around his shoulders. "That guy... He's been through a lot - and not just recently. I'm sure I'll be able to help him, but... Sometimes people don't wake up. The Gods don't always agree with magic, you know. Maybe he's meant to sleep in the arms of the White Lady - that's what the soldiers thought about you." Alfred rolls over to peer at Arthur with bright blue eyes, the same blue eyes that seemed to emanate innocence and wonder back when they were children (and yet somehow they still do, despite the worldliness and decline of Alfred's hope). "I was sure you weren't going to wake up. I had a magical backlash that lasted days, and when I woke up, you were still gone. It was... scary."

Arthur looks away from Alfred with a grimace. "Well, I'm okay now," he says with a grunt. "So there's no point in dwelling on it now." And it's an uncomfortable thought - knowing that you're not supposed to be alive, and yet you are. Arthur doesn't know if it's a blessing or an omen, and he doesn't want to think further on it than is strictly necessary.

"Yeah, you're right." The room is enveloped in silence and Arthur is grateful when he hears Alfred's breathing even out and soften into light snores. He stares up at the ceiling and wishes it wasn't there so he could watch clouds float idly overhead as Alfred naps.

He knows he could simply leave Alfred to rest, but there's a part of him that doesn't want to even exit the room without the other. Arthur frowns at that thought. It's likely that he feels indebted to Alfred (and he is, he is very much indebted to his old friend in more ways than one). But perhaps his presence is suffocating. Alfred's smiles aren't the same any more - not how he remembered them; bright, fearless, filled with hope and excitement for the future. And when he looks at Alfred now, the blond hardly cares about what is happening at that moment, let alone for the next day. He knows it's not his business to pry, but he can't help but to wonder in these quiet moments - what happened to his friend Alfred Jones?

Several hours later Alfred wakes with a snort, pressing a hand to his face to try and rub the sleep from his eyes before searching for his spectacles. The first touches of an orange evening are gracing the skies when they decide to go and visit Emma once again.

Caleb is at the bar counter, cleaning a chipped mug when they make it down the stairs. "Where do you think you're going?" he asks sharply, glaring at them as it seems was his custom.

"We're going to visit Sir Morgon," Alfred explains easily. "You can come with us if you want. I'm sure Arthur would like to have a chat with you while I work."

The innkeeper is suspicious at first, giving Arthur a long, dubious once-over before finally nodding. "Selene, take the bar. I'm heading out for business." A young woman quickly slips behind the bar counter, allowing Caleb out as she picks up a new mug to clean. "And no freebies! You got me? Or else it's coming out of your pay!" He huffs to himself and they all leave together, Arthur walking between Alfred and Caleb like a human shield. "Damn girl, doesn't know what to do with flattery but to give out free drinks to make the fools shut up." He crosses his arms with a scowl. "So, Sir Amazing Healer, how is Sir Morgon? Emma wouldn't tell me."

Alfred sighs, staring at his feet as he weaves his way around people and animals alike. "I'm sure I can help him," he says slowly. "He's... not in very good condition to be honest."

Caleb nods. "Honesty is the only answer I'll accept." He pauses a moment. "Do you think he'll be fit to, erm, well you know?"

"Command?" Arthur prompts.

"Yes, that. Goddamn is nothing around here a secret?"

Alfred chuckles and he has the urge to reach out and pat Arthur for being - well, Arthur. Instead he hooks his fingers into the twine belt of his tunic and smiles further. "It's a well-kept secret," Alfred says in a placating manner. "The only reason we know is because we want to help. Hopefully you'll let us - Drachman men aren't too far away these days..." Alfred trails off carefully, leaving a sense of foreboding in his words as he glances passed Arthur to Caleb.

"So they're coming, huh? That regiment to the west finally fell after all these years. It's not surprising; they had shitty positioning and were heavily outnumbered. That Captain of theirs was really something to hold out as long as they did."

Arthur clears his throat, debating for a moment and then says, "Thank you."

Caleb is quiet after that, his scowl deepening in thought as they approach the blue painted door. Alfred knocks three times and then pushes the door open with a smile. "Hello Emma, I'm back."

Emma is in the shop front, arranging her glass bottles meticulously and replacing their labels with fresh tags. She jumps slightly in surprise before offering Alfred a weak smile. "Have you come to see Sir Morgon again? So soon?"

"Yes." Alfred's grin quickly falls into a frown. "He's going to need a lot of attention in this state. I hope I can have him well enough and awake in a few days. Until then, I think you two," and he gives both Arthur and Caleb purposeful looks, "should talk. Drachma is knocking on the door."

"You say that like I don't already know it," Arthur teases with a roll of his fae green eyes.

Caleb and Emma exchange glances before Caleb sighs dramatically. "Yeah, right. Hey, you have money right? I don't really think you do, but let's go to the bar. Let the healer do his job."

Arthur obviously hesitates, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword before Alfred gives him a shaky smile. "Go on. I'm in a house of healing, Arthur, nothing will happen here... and I can take care of myself if that's the case - at least for a little while. I promise."

"Right." Arthur turns quickly to Caleb. "I'll follow you."

Alfred watches the two of them leave with a growing frown. He feels an unsettled shiver run its way down his spine, but for the moment he pays it no heed and focuses his attention back to Emma. "So, can you tell me everything that you've done for him so far? I might have to reverse some of the effects the potions have caused..."

* * *

Arthur decides that Caleb, although brash and unforgiving, is one of the best at battlefield logistics he's ever seen. The bar is loud and the barmaids, once their sexual advances are rebuffed, hardly pay them attention. Caleb draws another unit on his piece of parchment, showing their movement over the course of the weeks. "They're the less trained ones, and we ain't got military efficiency out here, so it's down to hit and run."

"I see." Arthur hums to himself as he examines the paper. "What do your men know of battle? I'm sure they've seen a fight or two, correct? But are they capable of wielding weapons correctly? And furthermore, do you have the supplies to carry out a proper defense?"

Caleb bites his lip. "No. It's hard to train anyone with the Drachmans bearing down on us like this. We've anticipated spies, so there are no open demonstrations. Small classes and such are all we have to go by... And as for supplies, we have the weapons, but everything else? Not really. We didn't think about perishables 'coz there was no real threat - not yet. Guess that was a bad call."

There's a sudden holler from one of the men in the front and they decide to excuse themselves as a typical bar fight begins to ensue. "I suppose the first order of business is to collect supplies - by any means necessary. Secondly, I'll happily train what men I can in Sir Morgon's stead. When he awakes, perhaps we can double our efforts. I'll not see this town fall like the last."

"You're just a noble bastard ain't you?" Caleb asks with distaste and Arthur merely scoffs at the insult. "Well, whatever the case, I can't say we don't need you, so I'm not gunna dismiss your help. Not yet. Anyway, we always hold training meetings at the Durslin Farmstead right before dawn. No one goes there, and Old Maggie's gotta son in the militia so she does everything she can for us. We can trust her."

Arthur gives a sharp nod. "I'll be there."

"Good. Now, go get your damn healer boy and I'll make sure Selene gets you two something to eat when you get back to the inn." And with that Caleb gives Arthur a mock salute and leaves.

"_My _damn healer boy, eh?" He chuckles to himself as he makes his way back to Emma's apothecary shop. Following Alfred's example, Arthur knocks on the painted blue door three times before opening it.

Emma rushes out of the back room just as he enters, looking slightly distraught and then relieved when she sees it's Arthur at her door. "Oh! I'm glad you're here. Alfred's just back here... ah... you should speak with him. I think he overexerted himself, but he won't admit it.

With a growing frown, Arthur follows Emma into the room of healing where Alfred is slumped against the wall by Sir Morgon's bed. "Oh hey Arthur! Glad to see you're back. It's been a few hours huh? How was your chat with Caleb?"

"It went well." Arthur's brows fall in worry. "Why don't you come stand over here?" he asks, gesturing to the space next to him.

Alfred laughs weakly. "Yeah, sure... just give me about... a minute." He makes a tired noise and then pushes himself away from the wall only to quickly catch himself on the post of Sir Morgon's bed. "I'm tired."

Arthur rushes to Alfred's side, catching his friend as he stumbles. "Why did you push yourself so far?" he demands quietly, pulling Alfred's arm over his shoulder as Alfred had once done for him.

"I didn't think..."

"Obviously you didn't," Arthur interrupts with a snip and pulls Alfred away from the wall and towards the exit, "Thank you Miss Emma, we'll see you tomorrow."

Emma bids them from her shop as Alfred complains that he's perfectly capable of walking even though they both know that he's not. "I'm just tired," he complains as Arthur all but drags him towards the inn, feeling squeamish every time he notices another stranger looking oddly in their way. "I'll be fine!"

"Be glad I didn't throw you over my shoulder and carry you bad, lad." At that, Alfred deflates and allows Arthur to help him up the stairs of the inn and into the downy bed. "You need to stay awake long enough for a light meal, and then you can sleep, understand?"

Alfred nods lightly, his head sinking back into the bed's pillow as he fights to keep his eyes open. "It's pretty funny, I think. Now who's taking care of whom?"

"This wouldn't happen if you weren't such a bloody idiot."

They both laughed softly at the rather ironic situation, but then Alfred suddenly stops laughing and frowns. "Alfred?" Arthur questions slowly as the blond healer carefully lifts up a hand and experimentally swipes it through the air once or twice and then gently brings it to rest upon Arthur's chest.

Alfred's brows crease in confusion. "Do you see that?" he asks quickly, before Arthur can question him further. "It's right here... between us. Do you see it?"

Curiously Arthur looks down to try and spot what Alfred could possibly be talking about. He narrows his acidic green eyes and glances around, about to give up and blame Alfred's actions on his overstressed mind when he suddenly sees something thin and golden, dangling between them like a fine string. "What is that?" he asks, bringing up a hand to touch the golden gleam, only to have his fingers pass directly through it.

"I don't know," Alfred admits. He takes his hand away from Arthur's chest with a heavy frown.

"I don't see it anymore." Arthur squints his eyes again. "It just vanished."

"Really? It's still there." He pauses and looks at his hand. "Hold on," he murmurs and places his palm against Arthur's chest once again. "Do you see it now?"

Arthur nods. "Yes."

There is a knock on the door and Arthur jumps away from Alfred with a shake of his head. "Come in," he says, watching Alfred carefully for a moment before turning to watch the barmaid bring in a tray and a small folding table normally meant for card games.

"Here is your dinner, sirs," she says sweetly, setting up the table and placing the platter on top with an ingrained grace. "Is he going to be alright? Poor fella looks a bit pale. I would make sure he eats the greens."

"Thank you, ma'am. And I'll make sure that he does." Arthur gives the woman a slight bow, watching her leave. He turns back to Alfred, bringing the table and tray close to the bed and sits at Alfred's feet. "How much do you think you can eat?"

Alfred makes a face. "Do I really have to eat greens?"

"Yes."

"In that case... not much." He smiles weakly and does his best to suppress a yawn. He's glad that Arthur's back with him. Earlier he felt strangely empty after the Captain had gone off to the bar with Caleb, as if he had turned into a shallow shell, forcing out all the movement of healing, but never correctly connecting like he was used to. It took twice as much energy to do something as simple as coaxing flesh into rejuvenation when all else was thought to be dead. "Are you sure you don't want the bed?" he asks to try and take his mind off things, ignoring the plate that is set on the makeshift table for him. "It's not fair that you have to sleep on the floor when you've done just as much as I have."

The Captain raises a thick brow, his mouth pulling to the side as he tries to think of an appropriate response. "There's no way I'll allow you to sleep on the floor, Alfred, so just eat your dinner and go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

Alfred struggles to sit up and grab his plate, but he manages to give Arthur a petulant glare. "I could have thought of a way... we could always _share _the bed. It's pretty huge and I've had to deal with worse - like the time I had to share a bunk with two kids for three weeks, the only available bed in town my ass."

"I... well..." Arthur chokes on his words and then clears his throat. "We'll not have to resort to such extreme measures, so fret not. Sleep in the bed tonight and we can discuss who gets it tomorrow when the time comes. Now eat."

"Alright." They eat in silence, the sound of wooden utensils scraping against their plates. With tired bites Alfred finishes off his small meal and he barely has enough energy to finish chewing his last mouthful. "Lemme know if you change your mind," he mumbles as Arthur takes his dishes away and he settles back into the blankets.

Arthur smiles at him lightly. "I will, don't worry." He waits until Alfred is obviously asleep, his mouth hanging open as he begins to snore before Arthur sits on the floor with the rest of his food, leaning against the side of the bed so Alfred's limp hand would brush against his shoulder. He sighs and lets his head fall back, no longer as hungry as he thought he was. In just over two weeks he had been called from death, reunited with a friend he was convinced he would never see again, and escaped the enemy to fight against them another day - all of which were a direct fault of Alfred himself.

"Life is a fickle thing, is it not?" Arthur asks no one in particular. He thinks on it for a moment before sitting up with a deep breath, trying to cleanse the strange feeling that has overcome him and finishes the dinner before crawling into the bedroll. Tomorrow was always a new day that held the answers that couldn't be found today. Or at least Arthur hoped so.

* * *

Alfred grimaces as he hunches over Sir Morgon, touching the man's sweaty forehead with a damp rag. When he woke up this morning Arthur was already gone, a tray of cooling oats and cold water with a small note saying that he had gone off with Caleb to attend to the matters of the militia left behind. He shouldn't have been as surprised or as _upset_ as he was about the matter - he shouldn't _still _but upset about it, even though he knew something like this might've happened. It isn't as if Arthur has done anything inherently wrong, but there is a small, heavy feeling in the cradle of his stomach when he looks up to say something and his friend isn't there, again and again and again.

Sir Morgon groans and Alfred pulls himself out of his thoughts to rub his fingers against the man's temples. "Why don't you just heal the fever?" Emma asks worriedly from her corner in the room. For every moment that Alfred tries to work, Emma is shadowing him, asking question after question about Sir Morgon, his methods, just what exactly he might be doing at that very second.

"Sometimes it's better to let the body heal itself," he says softly. "Magic can be unpredictable and it's susceptible to human mistake." Alfred gives Emma the most reassuring smile he can manage. "I'm here to make sure his fever doesn't peak too high. I also wouldn't suggest giving him anything beyond broth and water until he can at least speak."

Emma runs her fingers along the flat of her dress with a sigh. "I understand," she mutters. "But... ah, do you really _have _to be here if you're just going to let his fever run its course?"

"Is it alright if I _want _to be here? I'm used to helping soldier after soldier, bleeding; dying, broken... this is..." He dabs the cloth along Sir Morgon's brow. "It's peaceful." And there are times when he's sleeping and all he can see are the crying, pained faces of the men who die too slowly for their country - who fight and fight to the bitter end, only to find release in death instead a new chance at life. It's a morbid scene that haunts him like a dark shadow as he stalks the aftermath of war. Sometimes he can't remember if he ever wished something like this upon himself, but he thinks that he must have.

Emma's lips purse together tightly and then she sighs. "I understand. I have things I must do this afternoon... but ah, feel free to come and go as you please whether or not I'm here."

He smiles at her again and says, "Thank you. I won't cause you any trouble."

"I'll hold that to you."

Alfred turned back to his patient, continuing his vigilance over the man. It works well to fight off the loneliness he never knew he suffered from. "Well it's just you and me, Sir Morgon," Alfred whispers, taking the rag from the man's head and dipping it back into the pot of cold water. "We should probably get used to it for a while."

He watches the time idle by through the only window in the room. Sir Morgon occasionally mumbles or groans in his feverish state and Alfred decides to soothe the man by talking to him in low tones, telling him of the constellations and their associated myths, occasionally delving into fantastical tales such as the story of Hercules and his trials until the man would calm once more.

"And not only that," Alfred was saying as Sir Morgon began to whine under his breath, "but the stars are used for navigation. You'll always see Polaris the brightest star in Ursa Minor, sailors use this star to find due north without fail. It works on land, too, I promise."

The fabric and colored beads covering the door open with a rustling noise and Alfred looks up to see Arthur cautiously make his way inside. "You weren't at the inn," Arthur points out awkwardly after a minute of gaping silence.

Alfred turns back to Sir Morgon. "I know. Neither were you."

"I left a note..."

The comfortable silences are gone again and Alfred's shoulders slump at the heavy feeling that settles around them. "I saw it," he says finally, pushing away from Sir Morgon's bedside with a frown. "I got caught up with... well you know. His fever is weaker now, so I guess I can leave. I'll have to check up on him later, to make sure it's not going to get worse."

Arthur taps the toe of his boot on the wooden flooring. "I understand." He coughs. "I'm guessing that you haven't eaten yet, either. There's an early dinner waiting for us back in our room - is that alright?"

"Yeah. No, that's great." He stands up and finds that his smiles come easier as he leaves with Arthur, making their way to the inn easily. "So how was your day with everyone?" he asks, making sure not to give away any vital or suspicious information. "It certainly took a while."

"It went well, I think. They obviously don't trust me, but things are progressing well enough. They all want updates on your patient though." Arthur gives Caleb a short wave when they come to the inn, heading upstairs quickly as Alfred tries to suppress a yawn. "He is going to be fine, right?"

Alfred pats Arthur on the back reassuringly. "Oh yeah. He might be feverish, but he's conscious. He's going to sleep _a lot_ though. I wouldn't be surprised that when he wakes up he won't be able to stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time – at least for the first day or so."

"So, all is well?"

And there is a devastatingly hopeful look in Arthur's fae green eyes that makes Alfred bit his lip to silence himself. There is a worry lurking in the back of his mind but he doesn't know how to voice it, or when - certainly not now when moral is obviously low and the enemy is practically breathing on their necks. He knows he must be surer of his worries before daring to voice them. "Yes," he says slowly, "I'm sure everything is going to be perfectly fine."

Arthur's smile is like a stab to his chest, but he tries to return the gesture with as much ease as he can muster. He only hopes that when Sir Morgon awakes there is clarity to the man's eyes, recognition of place and spirit, but Alfred can only hope. The man's body is still recovering from an accident he is lucky to survive without some form of severe injury. Alfred groans. "I'm starving."

"Well, come along then! Have a seat." Arthur nudges Alfred onto the bed in their room and grabs the tray of cooling food off the folding table. "I'm really not in the mood for manners today. You need the energy, so just eat what you can for now."

Alfred's brows furrow as he looks down at the moist chicken and gravy. "What about you?" he asks.

"I'll eat what you don't. I had lunch, unlike you, so I'll be quite alright."

"Oh." Suddenly Alfred feels highly self-conscious of what he's eating and how much. He fears there won't be enough for Arthur (and Arthur must use far more energy than he does training all those men and arguing with Caleb like Alfred's sure he does), and his fear is doubled with the thought that if there isn't enough, Arthur would likely be upset with him. Alfred pushes the plate away slightly. "I'm really not that hungry," he mumbles dejectedly.

Arthur's face draws into a confused expression. "You just said you were hungry."

"Well I am, was, but I... I'm really not." He pushes the tray so that it balances on each of their laps. "Let's just share."

"Alfred..." Arthur picks up a fork and points it at Alfred lazily. "You should make up your mind - or my mind. You seem... fidgety. Are you alright? Did you overstress yourself?"

Alfred makes a small noise. "No I'm fine; I just don't feel right eating before you - or anyone. I think it's just a habit ingrained in me from the castle, you know? I always ate after Radu and the nobles like you... it's strange enough eating _with _you." He waits until Arthur has taken the first bite before beginning to eat as well. "I know it's strange, but it's true."

Arthur nods his head. "I'll keep that in mind for the future."

They eat in a peaceful silence, letting their own heavy thoughts weigh on their minds. Days ago they had been looking forward to this - to the escape from the harsh lands and to make use of themselves, but now Alfred is beginning to think that it might've been a bad idea - or at least a task too large for only two people. The more he thought about Sir Morgon and Arthur struggling to keep some kind of authority to even help these men, the more he wanted to leave and try the next town.

He yawns and leans up against Arthur unconsciously. They have to stay because this is where the Drachmans were going to march to next - this is the first defense (and of course it's in shambles). He knows that Arthur won't leave, possibly not until the bitter end either. And even though it doesn't sit with him well, Alfred knows he can't abandon Arthur, not when there are so many questions left, not when he still needs to find out what's happening to him and his magic, so he sits by quietly and accepts his fate once again.

"Are you alright?" Arthur touches his face gently, his calloused fingers running across the length of his cheekbone before tapping lightly so Alfred's eyes fluttered opened. "Do you need to rest? You look pale."

Alfred opens his mouth to respond but notices how close he is to Arthur, his head resting on the soldier's shoulder and their faces uncomfortably close as Arthur waits for a response, his hand still warm against Alfred's face. There is something black pressing onto his chest, stealing his breath and words as he fights to keep a neutral expression. He can't tell if the emotion is his own, as foreign as it feels, but he knows after a moment or two that it's the painful knowledge that there's something he'll never have. "Yeah," he says breathily once he manages to catch his breath. "Yes."

"Are you okay?" Alfred asks him softly as Arthur begins to pull away from him. "You don't look that well either. Are you getting sick?"

"Sick..." Arthur repeats slowly, running a hand through his golden mop of hair and sighing. "Yes, I suppose that's a good word for it." He stands up suddenly to put quick distance between Alfred and him. "It's nothing you need to attend to however."

"Oh. I see. Well, either way you should lie down and rest for a few hours - before I make my evening visit to Sir Morgon." Alfred pats a hand on the bed, his fingers burying into the linens. "We can share - honestly. It's a huge bed, Arthur. If you keep sleeping on the floor like that you'll strain your muscles further."

Arthur shakes his head and nibbles on his lower lip. "I'll have to pass - thank you however. I think all I need is a good walk... yes, I'll go do that now. I'll be back in no time."

Alfred is stricken with a sudden, severe panic as Arthur reaches for the door handle. He doesn't want to be alone anymore, doesn't want to be apart from Arthur or sit idly on his bed wondering if the Captain would ever come back or if he's been left for simply being _too much_ - a nuisance, crushing and suffocating in his thirst for company - _Arthur's _company. The feeling spikes up within him, piercing his chest and he hates it, watching as Arthur's hand flies to his own chest, fae green eyes wide and scared.

"W-what was that?" he asks and there is a tremor of worry in his voice as he backs away from the door. "So sudden... It was just... fierce loneliness. I can't explain it."

They stare at one another for a moment, Alfred's mouth opening and closing as he tries to think of something to say and as time passes he can feel the confusion settle about them both like dust on a mantelpiece. "I..." He coughs. "I panicked."

Arthur blinks slowly as he tries to decipher the meaning behind Alfred's quiet confession. "What for? And that honestly doesn't explain much to me - it doesn't explain why I... why that _feeling_... Ah." He gives up with a frustrated noise and takes an ungraceful seat on the far end of the bed. "God, it was such an awful feeling... I've never felt that way - never that alone..."

"I've been feeling weird too," Alfred mumbles as he stares down at his feet. "Sometimes I feel protective or really... upset and I can't explain why." He lays back on the bed, his legs hanging over the side as he closes his eyes in thought. "I think..." and he trails off, not exactly sure how to put his tumultuous thoughts into words. "Something must have happened. I'm not sure when, or how or even what - but there's something off about me... and you, but I promise I'll find out what it is and fix it."

"Huh..." Arthur leans back in the thoughtful silence, propping himself up on his elbows. "Do you think it's something with magic? Or is it... normal occurrence?"

Alfred shakes his head. He's been alone for a long time and never before has the feeling bothered him, but now it was crippling and morphed into some disgusting version of an emotion. He doesn't know why he feels this way or how it developed, let alone how it is projected onto his friend, so he assumes the most obvious possibility first. "It has to be magic." And at that moment he wishes he is back in his tower with the spiraling shelves of books, tomes, and journals for him to pour himself into, searching for the answer within faded ink and musty paper. Maybe Emma would have something for him to look into. "I'll figure it out," he says with a light smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm definitely the brains in this duo and you're the brawn."

Arthur raises a brow, looking at Alfred from over his shoulder. "I'm inclined to disagree, but on this subject of magic I'm sure you've far more expertise. All I know of magic is how to stop it; putting out magical fires and killing enemy magicians before they can cause too much damage." He falls all the way onto the bed, his head resting next to Alfred's shoulder. "Do people fear you, Alfred?"

"Yeah. Even when I tell them I'm a healer. Is all they see is magic - all they think about are those horrible stories." He shrugs, chuckling when he accidentally bumps Arthur's head. "I'm used to it. There's always that one person who can change minds, that and the fact that I'm not very good at any other magic than healing. Do... Are people afraid of you when you tell them that you're a soldier?"

"No, not generally. We're in a war and every soldier that comes home alive is celebrated - or so I hear. I haven't been home since I finished training camp." They both shift to find more comfortable positions, and Alfred can feel his eyelids growing more and more heavy. "I suppose it's unfair to you. I'm a dangerous man - all soldiers are, and yet when you try and do good, no one trusts you. I'm sorry. I wish they all understood."

"Like you do?" Alfred prompts, his voice is slightly hopeful despite the drowsiness that is overtaking his body.

The Captain shakes his head slowly. "I don't understand," he mumbles softly, "and that bothers me, but... I _trust _you. You saved my life and you were my friend for many, many years, so I have no doubt that you're a good person."

Alfred doesn't say anything, only hums something under his breath before he falls into sleep.

* * *

Alfred has never been sure about Radu's radical ideas and disproving arguments of divinity - especially his arguments of dreams. It was the thin, indistinguishable line of knowing whether your dream was truly a premonition or if it is your subconscious whispering into your mind of all the things you want but cannot have, of the things you don't understand but want to.

He finds himself standing in a field of growing wheat, the grainy tops of the sprouts ticking at his fingertips as the sun gets in his eye. He can see Arthur in the distance, the red cape he wore among his ranks billowing as he walks away without looking back. Alfred can see the golden string between them, stretching and stretching, wrapping around his fingers and arms, binding him until he can't move, can't breathe. There is a poisonous sadness that crawls up the back of his throat, but he is unable to shout or scream for Arthur to come back.

Is all he knows when he wakes up is that he hates being alone.

- End Chapter Four -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Sorry about the delay – November is a disgustingly busy month, I don't like it anymore. And as always, thank you to Michelle/Cheru for betaing this. :D


	6. Chapter Five: Sculptor

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad – Netherlands, Emma – Belgium, Caleb - Molossia

**Constellations**

_Chapter Five: Sculptor_

Sir Morgon mumbles under his breath as he sleeps uneasily in his bed and Alfred checks his temperature repetitively as he catches the words, "monster" and "doom-bringer". He's not sure if the man is having fever dreams or legitimate nightmares.

It's still early in the afternoon and Alfred takes a long drink of cool, clear water before stretching out his arms. Now seems like an ideal time to try and survey the extent of the damage upon Sir Morgon, now that he is stable and resting – with the exception of his occasional fit. Alfred touches his hands to the sides of the man's head, closing his eyes in concentration as he remembers what it is to be flesh and bone, blood, and innards. Sometimes it's hard to see past the trauma as the little fingers of magic scour Sir Morgon, examining every inch that Alfred knew would cause the greatest of problems in the future.

There is something humanizing about healing. It's humbling and gratifying as he carefully mends the chipped vertebrae in Sir Morgon's spine, frowning more as he moves his way down. Radu had once said that the magic of healing was the light in the darkness, banishing the bad and restoring the good, but sometimes there was the darkness that couldn't be altered - something so permanent that even the strongest lights could not penetrate without causing the darkness to recede to other places. Alfred's frown becomes a marring scowl as he comes upon such a mass of blackened injury, finding that his magic would only do so much - virtually nothing in comparison to his expectations.

He pulls away from Sir Morgon and lifts the man's shirt to examine the fading bruises and cuts along his body, he then stands and grasps one of Sir Morgon's ankles to lift his foot and stretch his leg. After a moment of thought, he drags his finger down the arch of Sir Morgon's bare foot, creasing his brows when he doesn't receive even a slight twitch in reflex. He repeats the motion several times on both feet, resorting to pricking the bottoms of his feet with a sewing needle.

"That's not very promising," he mumbles to himself as he fixes his patient's clothes and tucks him into his light blankets. There is no doubt that the man suffered some kind of head trauma, although Alfred is sure the extent isn't as threatening as it was before – now that much of the swelling was gone, so his previous worries are no longer an issue, but this... He sighs and returns to his perch next to the man, setting his chin on a fist as he tries to think of what he can possibly do for an injury such as this.

Emma bustles into the room, her hands on her hips and her curly blond hair kept back by a green embroidered kerchief tied behind her neck. "Arthur is here for you," she says, pushing Alfred off of his stool and pulling him into the shop front. "I'm sure Morgon will be just fine without you to watch him for a while," she goes on before Alfred can protest properly, "I'll be here if he wakes up, and I'm a far more familiar face than you, so it might even be beneficial."

Arthur is standing by the door, his sword strapped firmly to his hip over his simple breeches and tunic. Ever since Alfred had woken from that dream, Arthur had been nothing but kind towards him, speaking in gentle tones and outlining what exactly he would be doing the following day. Alfred is mortified to think that he may have spoken in his sleep and Arthur had overheard his nightmarish insecurities. "You're here early," Alfred says as plainly as he can, waving goodbye to Emma for the time being. "Why is that?"

"I'd rather you not skip out on lunch again, not when we have the option of free food." Arthur leads the way out of the apothecary, walking next to Alfred with an upturned brow. "Is something on your mind? You're quiet today."

Alfred bites his lower lip. He doesn't know what Arthur is alluding to and to save himself from the humiliation of his pride he says, "Don't tell Caleb this - not yet - but... I think that Sir Morgon... well... he'll live! Don't look at me like that, damn, but... I don't think he'll, ah... walk." He starts chewing on a blunted nail in favor of his lip. "I'm sure that complicates things for you and Caleb, but his spine... I had the chance to do a thorough examination and his lower spine... it's beyond the help of any healing. If that man does manage to walk again, it'll be the blessing of the heavens themselves."

"I see... That isn't the type of news anyone ever wants to hear. I promise I won't tell Caleb, but I'm definitely going to have to take it into consideration. Do you know when he'll wake? I fear the threat of Drachma's men with every day that passes. We've only just posted scouts and we still don't have any idea how close or far away the next attack is." He blows out a long, frustrated sounding sigh and they drop their conversation when they reach the door of the inn.

Inside the inn is loud and they're greeted by Selene, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and she directs them to an empty table in the corner away from most of the rambunctious chatter and merrymaking. "I'll be right out with something for you two - is wine alright with you? We're a bit short on ale tonight."

"Wine is perfectly fine, thank you." Arthur sets his hands on the table top in an open gesture after Selene leaves. "I was thinking and... would you mind talking for a little while, Alfred?" he asks wistfully.

"Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Clever as always, but I meant that, well... despite everything, I don't know you beyond your fourteen year old self. You're... ah... what? Twenty? Twenty-one now?"

Alfred clears his throat. "I'm actually twenty-two, but that's not a bad guess, considering my birthday was but a month ago. You'll be twenty-six next year, I know. I've... ah... kept track." He diverts his eyes to the table, watching Arthur drum his fingers on the wood. "Do you think you'll live to see it?" he asks for a desperate change in subject.

"Yes," Arthur says with his crooked smile and breathy laugh. "A morbid thought, but I'm sure I will. Twenty-six is a good, fit age, I'd say." He watches Alfred bob his head in agreement. "But I wanted to ask you... what do you like to do? Especially so now that you're out of that tower?"

"What I like to do...?" Alfred is caught off guard by the question and hesitates as he tries to think of the best answer he can. "Uh... well I haven't had much time to myself, but I don't think my hobbies have changed. Not really."

Arthur sits back and hooks his hands around the back of his head, looking far too smug with himself when Selene returns with a tray of breads and cheeses as well as two wooden cups and a pitcher of cold wine. "So you like to sneak into kitchens, frighten the servants' children with your monster stories, and flirt with young maids still?"

The healer chokes on his own tongue, coughing a few times before he can feel his face bloom into a dusty blush. "Really? That's what you think I did all the time?" He huffs and crosses his arms even though he can't rightly be upset with Arthur because for the most part it was all true, so instead he settles on humiliation and says, "Well, I guess I forget how long seven years is... Actually these days I just... watch the stars and practice my trade. If I can I try and read, but I really don't have that option since books are cumbersome and I'm always on the move. Very few places I visit have libraries and even less will share with strangers." Alfred shrugs nonchalantly. "It's not much, but it's true. But how about you, hm? What does someone like you do in his spare time? Chasing the mousing-cats with your practice sword and sneaking chocolates from your dad's room still?"

Arthur's laugh is loud and cheerful and Alfred is a little stunned by the sound. It makes his chest warm and the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "I always shared those chocolates with you, so you're not out of the blame on that one. But ah, let's see... at camp I had taken up learning the lute in my downtime. There was a lad named Feliks - a native of Bardiche he was - he played the pipes very well and there were many nights spent in song to boost morale. It was a sad day when he died; no one dared play a tune for weeks afterwards." He sighs to himself. "But these days? I want..." Arthur trails off for a moment, allowing their conversation to be overpowered by the chatter around them. "I want to learn."

"Learn what?" Alfred asks with a curious tilt of his head.

"About you - about magic and what you do and how you help people. I want to understand. I don't want to be like everyone else." Arthur leans forward earnestly, his vivid green eyes holding Alfred's as he speaks. "I know it sounds strange, but it's true. I don't want to see people afraid of you and empathize with them. And... I wanted to ask you to teach me - not magic of course, but how it works and why I should or should not be afraid of it. Maybe you'll even learn something too, of course that's not likely, but I'm grasping at ideas here."

Alfred seems to mull the idea over as they eat in silence. When the last of the wine is gone and Selene takes away their empty tray Alfred says slowly, "Okay. I don't see any harm in it and... I'm... pretty honored that you care." There is no small amount of trepidation but he does his best to seem confident in his decision. He is no teacher, let alone to someone who is not magically inclined, but he's sure enough that he can impart the concept of magic and it's abilities to his friend well enough. "We can start tonight after dinner if you want."

"So soon?" Arthur asks, looking slightly taken aback.

"Radu had me in that tower every single day for fifteen years since the day I arrived in the capital," Alfred reminds Arthur with a chiding snap. "I'm sure you'll survive a little lesson after dinner."

The soldier chuckles to himself. "I suppose you're right." He slaps his hands on the tabletop and moves to stand, bending over the table slightly and asks Alfred, "I've got to get back, and I'm sure you must as well - would you like me to come and... get you for dinner?"

"Yeah, sure." And when they part this time, they simply say quick farewells and exchange waves. There is no nervousness about it, nor are there skeptical thoughts on returning or being left, and now that Alfred is at ease he wonders why it was never this way to begin with.

When he returns to the small house of healing, Emma is not in the shop front as she normally is, tending the labeled vials or sweeping the dirty floor. Alfred hurries to the back, pushing aside the cloth and bead coverings of the door hastily. Emma is sitting on Sir Morgon's bed, his head in her lap as they speak softly, a cup of water in her hand, which tells Alfred that he must have woken up a while ago.

"And here's the man that tended to you, Morgon. It's thanks to Alfred here that you woke up - there was very little my potions could do." Emma smiles up at Alfred as he approaches. One of her narrow fingered hands is running through Sir Morgon's choppy black hair as the man's pale blue eyes fixate onto the healer as he nears the bedside.

"It's nice to see you awake and well, Sir," Alfred says genially and takes a seat on his usual stool. "When you feel fit I would like to make su -"

Sir Morgon interrupts him with a sharp movement of his hand. "No need for the niceties. I know what you are, magician, Emma has told me everything. What is it you're after? What is your purpose here?"

"Morgon!" Emma hisses in surprise, but he silences her just as quickly.

"There's nothing good about his kind, Emma. If I weren't grateful for my life, I would be angry at you for even allowing him to set foot in your shop." He turns and glares at Alfred. "You've done your work, now what is it that you want from me in return?"

Alfred purses his lips and stands from the stool. There is a tray on a small table beneath the window with Emma's tools for preserving and cutting herbs alongside her mortar and pestle on top. He snatches up a small knifelike tool with a triangular blade on the very tip of the wooden handle. It's sharp, made for cutting plant fiber in precise measurements and is stained yellow from its previous use on the buds of wildflowers known to soothe aches and pains. "Tell me if you feel this, Sir Morgon," he says ambiguously and then, without further warning he stabs the man with the small knife in the muscle of his thigh.

Emma gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as Sir Morgon stares mutely at the wooden handle protruding from his thigh, unflinching and slack. "Unfortunately, Sir, you were disabled in your accident. Even with all the magic in the world there's nothing I can do for you."

Still frowning, he pulls out the small knife and pinches the wound between dexterous fingers, letting his magic soothe and staunch the bleeding. The skin knits together easily and Alfred scowls as he takes his hand away. He can see the implications and reality of the situation dawn on Sir Morgon's face - the mute horror and fear of the future. "Will he walk again?" Emma asks quietly. "Some - sometimes it's not as permanent. I-I mean..."

"No, he won't. Your spine is severed - in two places. That ox could have easily crushed your skull, organs - you're lucky to even be alive, lucky that you're not a lifeless, breathing... _doll_ on that bed." His blue eyes are narrowed as he huffs in anger. People have had worse reactions to his presence, even after healing them and saving their lives, but he can never unsee to carnage he helped clean up after, could never forget the cries and pained prayers of the crippled and broken. "But since you are so educated in my kind, I'll keep it short; it's not what _I _want from you, it's what my friend wants from you. I live to serve others - _that _is what a magician does. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way."

Emma makes a sad noise, pushing herself off the bed and rearranging Sir Morgon's pillows before chasing after Alfred as he makes his way back onto the busy streets. "Wait, please, wait Alfred!" she calls out, gathering up her plain skirts and running after him as he tries to push his way through the market. When she catches him, Emma yanks him off to the side, between two stalls selling assortments of fabric. "Thank you," she pants out. "I know you don't think it's worth much, but you saved my fiancé's life - so thank you. Don't think I'll ever forget this." With a broad grin she cups Alfred's face between her hands and pulls him roughly into a chaste, yet enthusiastic kiss. "I'll make sure Morgon does everything your lovely friend Arthur wants." And with that declaration she takes off down the busy road, leaving Alfred to stare blankly after her.

He feels a small bit of resentment bubble into his chest as he brings his fingers to his lips, wiping at them with a downward curve of his brow. Certainly it wasn't his first kiss, but it was unexpected and at this point, unwanted. He looks up at the people around him and feels his eyes being drawn almost immediately towards the other side of the market square where he sees Arthur and Caleb talking together. A sharp spike of worry pierces through his chest when Arthur's bright green eyes meet his with a snap.

Alfred's hands tremble under the stress of emotions, but then Arthur nods discreetly to him and he ducks his head before hurrying back to the inn in search of peace and quiet. No one notices him slip inside and up the wooden staircase to his room where he buries himself into his bed. He plans for a quick nap, something to allow his mind to shut off and rest, but he can't. Images and feelings swirl in an endless maelstrom of thought, plaguing him each time he attempts to close his eyes.

Restlessness is a craving that he's all too familiar with and he knows there is very little to cure it but to allow his feet to carry him where they like, or until he can find something to divert his full attention to. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and stands, stretching a moment and then walks back down the stairs into the quieting lobby as the patrons begin to leave now that the main lunch hours are ending.

"Something I can get'cha sir?" Selene asks him as he finds himself standing at the end of the bar counter with a stupefied look on his face.

Alfred drops his gaze. "Actually, you happen to have... books would you?"

Selene suddenly grows suspicious, leering at Alfred with chocolate brown eyes. "Jus' what kinda books are you lookin' for, exactly? 'Coz we don't have any of... _those _kinda books."

"_Those_?" he repeats questioningly but shakes his head. "Uhm, actually - any book will do. I just need something to keep me busy for a couple hours, please."

"Oh." Selene smiles at him in relief. "Well, to be honest we only got one book here." She ducks down behind the counter for a quick moment and pops back up with a leather bound book with yellowed pages in one of her hands. "I'm borrowing it from the mayor's daughter, Jo Anne, so take good care 'o it and don't lose my spot! I'll pick it up from ya after your dinner."

Alfred takes the book gingerly. "Thank you very much," he says as politely as he can.

"_Do_ enjoy it now," Selene calls after him as he makes his way back up the stairs. He settles back into the bed, covering his legs with the blanket as he flips carefully through the pages to find Selene's dog-eared page and skims the first few paragraphs with remote interest.

_I look into his eyes and see everything I've ever wanted reflected within them. Love, lust, power, and something unknown - I want it all. My breast heaves along with my sighs as he touches me, his calloused fingers brushing luxuriously across my milky thighs. "I cannot wait any longer!" I cry out to him, "I need you, Arthur! Make love to me!"_

Alfred can feel his face flush with embarrassment as he flips back to the beginning of the book. No wonder Selene had seemed so smug. He grumbles to himself and begins reading the story of the romance between the maiden Francisca and Arthur (which causes him even further embarrassment at the vivid imagery his mind readily supplies at the name). He vows that this is the last time he asks a barmaid for reading material.

* * *

Arthur finds Alfred that evening with his nose buried in an old, worn book, an oil lamp on the stool beside the bed as the sunlight begins to dim in the window behind the healer. He stands awkwardly in the doorway a moment and then clears his throat. "Are you... studying?" he asks curiously, moving further into the room when Alfred finally looks up.

"Study... oh. No, nothing like that. This," he says and points at the book in his hand, "is the most tragically written romance I've ever had the misfortune of reading." He pauses. "Selene lent it to me. I have nothing better to do."

The soldier sits on the foot of the bed, raising a brow at Alfred. "Romance, hm? You've been having a lot of that today I've noticed."

Alfred's stunning blue eyes fall back onto the pages of his book. "Ah... you saw that didn't you - in the marketplace?" Arthur nods and sniffs, mentioning that it wasn't any of his business, but Alfred doesn't want to hear it. "Sir Morgon woke up today," he says forcefully so Arthur will listen. "Did you know that he and Emma are engaged? He's lost all feeling in his legs - he's crippled, but can you imagine her excitement? Knowing that her fiancé is going to live?"

"Ah..." Arthur has the grace to look ashamed for a moment. He clears his throat and leans back onto the bed. "I apologize. It wasn't my intention to... uh, offend." Alfred wonders who exactly the offended party is, but keeps his mouth shut and Arthur picks the conversation back up. "Our scouts tell us that there is a Drachman platoon coming. It should be here within the week - far sooner than I would have dared hope."

"You have a week to worry about it." Alfred sets the book aside, sitting up to stretch his tired limbs. "Anyway, I'm hungry and you've got a magic lesson… unless you have decided against it."

"I never said anything of the sort!" He sits up on the bed, leaning forward earnestly. "If you like, we can start right now - while we wait for dinner. I honestly want to learn."

Alfred tries not to smile at his friend. He hasn't changed since they were children, arguing simply because they were both too stubborn to try and find any middle-ground. Someone always had to be proven wrong, and in this instance Alfred didn't mind if he was the wrong one. "Alright," he mumbles, scooting across the bed so he sits neatly next to Arthur. "For our first lesson, we're going to work on breathing and concentration."

Everything that Radu had taught him comes rushing back to him, creating a vivid scene in his mind's eye. He takes one of Arthur's hands into his own, instructing the soldier to close his eyes and relax, just as Radu would do to him when he was young, sitting on a cushion surrounded by musty tomes on spiraling shelves. "Let all of your thoughts fall away," he says calmly, keeping his voice soft and free of sharp inflections. "Clear your mind and breathe with me. In... out... and in..."

The room around them is still and tranquil as they sit together. "Calm brings clarity," Alfred whispers as Arthur continues his breathing exercises. "With clarity comes power. Now that your mind is calm, I want you to imagine the life of stone." Arthur's hand twitches in his and he can tell the blond is confused by the question. "Just imagine," he continues patiently, "don't question its life - _understand _it. Stone is ageless; from stone we find beauty, strength, and wisdom."

Arthur gives a particularly deep sigh and Alfred sympathizes with the man. There is a notion tickling in the back of his mind, something that says the words he's reciting from Radu have a truth to them and that he knows - he knows the life and strength of the earth below and around him. When he touches upon the thought he is mentally bombarded by images and sensations. He is a statue in a courtyard of a rich castle, his stone flesh cold and hard and yet graceful and magnificent in detail. He is then a great wall of limestone encircling a city, tall and protective, giving shelter to the feeble within his strong embrace. He has never felt this way before - never this fiercely and it's both welcoming and sensational.

Suddenly the door opens loudly and both Alfred and Arthur jump out of their trance, smashing the powerful images thoroughly. Selene enters the room, raising a fine brow at Alfred and Arthur as she sets up the folding table as usual. "I'm gunna have to ask for my book back," she says to Alfred, settling her hands on her curved hips. "I've got some spare time, and I stopped at a real _juicy _part."

"I know," Alfred grumbles and gets up to return the book to Selene.

"Thanks, hun. If you ever want to borrow it again, jus' let me know." She gives him a patronizing wink before strutting out of the room, leaving Alfred to his embarrassment.

He looks over to Arthur. "There are more "juicy" parts in that book than I care to mention," he says sitting down. "Also the fact that the hero's name is Arthur makes things particularly uncomfortable, but hilarious - it's strange."

Arthur chokes on the piece of cornmeal bread that he is chewing on and Alfred laughs, picking at the tender meat. "That's disturbing," Arthur manages to say after clearing his throat and coughing. "Dreadfully disturbing, actually."

"I know. I was the one reading it." Alfred stifles another laugh. "If only Radu kept such books within my reach as a child, I would have grown bored of chasing the servant girls much sooner. Well, I never would stop flirting with them - how else was I supposed to get free food? But I definitely would have left it at that."

The soldier sends Alfred a side glance. "What? Did you pick up a disease from one of them, hm?"

"Wh-what? No! God no!" He can feel his face burn with his embarrassment and he glares down at his food. "Just no. Forget I ever mentioned it! No."

"I apologize," Arthur says quickly, watching as Alfred's face slowly drains of its color, leaving the healer looking pale and upset. "It was a stupid comment - I didn't think your reaction would be so violent." He reaches out to touch Alfred, to try and comfort his friend, but Alfred recoils from the touch and he gives up. "I'm very sorry."

Alfred sighs and shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to clear his thoughts. "Let's just forget it, alright?" They begin to eat in an awkward silence, their movements stunted and breaths quiet as if they're afraid to make even the slightest noises and disturb the other. It's the kind of silence that Alfred hates and he's tired of being uncomfortable around the man that was and still is his best friend, so he reaches out and taps Arthur on the shoulder, waiting for his bright green eyes to turn to him. "Are you ready to speak to Sir Morgon tomorrow?" he asks softly, hoping for approval on his change in subject.

Arthur thinks for a moment, chewing on his food slowly before answering. "I do believe so. In all honesty, do you believe he will cooperate with me? We've less than a week..."

"Emma and Caleb will make sure of it. I don't believe him to be a stupid man, and if Caleb tells him that Drachma is coming, I'm sure he'll be willing to do anything to stop them." He picks up a cold carrot and snaps it half, pretending to inspect the vegetable's center for a few moments. "I cannot come with you, though." Alfred glances up at Arthur and catches the other man's curious stare. "He knows what I am and he doesn't trust me - for all that I've done. It's alright, I'm used to it. That and I stabbed him in the leg. I'm sure he's still angry about that."

"You... stabbed him?" Arthur snorts. "That's just absurd enough for me to believe you. You're always doing something surprising."

With their dinner finished, Arthur sits back with a small smile. "Would you mind if we continued with those concentration lessons?" he asks, watching as Alfred cleans up their tray and sets the folding table and dishes just outside of the door and closes it so there would be no further interruptions. "It's nice - not having to think about everything at once."

Alfred smiles wanly. "That's a sentiment I understand well." He remembers the days after Arthur had left, the countless hours he spent sitting on a pile of cushions as he did nothing but meditate so he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to be sad or lonely. "Alright, get comfortable."

Together they fall back into the calm, their steady breaths in time with one another as Alfred begins telling the story of the life of stone and earth that was passed down from Radu. And when he doesn't receive the same astounding clarity and imagery as before, Alfred quietly slips his hand into Arthur's and lets the sensation of the earth wash over him.

He was beginning to understand.

- End of Chapter Five -

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Hi. I have finals next week. Wish me luck. =w=

Thank you to Cheru/Michelle for betaing this!

I uploaded this today 'coz Blu told me to haha.


	7. Chapter Six: Taurus

_Important Notes: _Radu – Romania, Conrad – Netherlands, Emma – Belgium, Caleb – Molossia

**Constellations**

_Chapter Six: Taurus_

Alfred is glad to find that he was right about Sir Morgon. Once the man finds out from Caleb that their days are numbered, he agrees to help Arthur in any way he sees possible to prepare for the attack. Scouts are posted along the roads. They use boys who are small and lithe, but unhelpful in real battle - Arthur had disagreed at first, but the boys of only fifteen volunteer themselves for the task. Weapons are sharpened far into the night, armor is buffed and repaired tediously and the citizens lock their doors at night, some even travelling to family further south once word spreads about the downfall of the last villages.

The days are tense and the evenings are spent in wait, sitting in their small bedroom letting their minds wander and ears perk as they listen to the town through their open window. If Alfred wasn't so used to the dark, haggard atmosphere, he would say it's suffocating and frightening. He can't fight, but he plans to save as many of the townsfolk as he can, ushering them safely from their homes before the Drachman platoon arrives - or so he hopes.

That night Alfred stands in front of their window, the late evening colors tinting the sky a blooming violet. On the very edge of the horizon he sees a faint dot of orange, a wavering splotch that seems to bob as it moves. He purses his lips. It's a distant torch. "They're coming," he says knowing that Arthur will hear him.

Arthur is by his side in an instant, leering out the window with an intense scowl disfiguring his features. "I see. It's time, then." He leans away, taking a step towards the door before catching Alfred's gaze. "You'll stay safe, will you? Be careful."

"I've been in worse situations," he says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "You're the one who needs to be careful and remember to meet me by the well when it's all over."

"I'll see you there, friend." Arthur salutes him and leaves hurriedly. Alfred turns back to the window and watches the slow progression of the flickering flame.

He will never get used to the blood curdling screams, Alfred thinks as he presses himself close to the side of a building, hiding in the shadows of the alley as Drachman soldiers march through the streets, pulling women and children from their homes and executing them. There is a young girl by his arm stifling her sobs, her baby brother in her arms as they make their way silently through the town and towards a cave that Alfred had long ago deemed safe and well hidden. There is the loud noise of metal clashing and orders being shouted. There are more Dracmans than expected, but it is obvious that the enemy hadn't been anticipating resistance either.

Alfred scoops the girl and her brother into his arms and runs through the alleys, his bare feet making nothing more than a muffled noise on the dusty streets. It's not an easy task and finds that eventually he must put the girl down in favor of saving his strength.

"You! Stop!" Alfred's blood freezes in his veins, the young girl is pressed up against him, hidden behind his dusty robes and she whimpers at the sight of a soldier in golden colored armor approach them. He is alone, but he is armed and bloodied, likely from the slaughter of the many innocents that Alfred couldn't save. "Don't think you can escape me, you little wretch."

A sense of panic washes over him, the girl's fingers digging desperately into his clothes as he tries to think of what to do. The baby shrieks and the soldier before him sneers at him darkly. "You cannot save them."

He can no longer think, his body merely reacting as the bloodied sword is pointed at him. He pulls his robe from the little girl's fingers and lunges for the soldier, unsurprised as the man swipes his weapon at him and gouges his shoulder. Alfred grasps the man's wrist and tackles him to the ground, the man's armor creating a loud clamor - he can't feel the pain of his wound, his blood creating a leak of warmth down his arm as he roughly pushes his hand into the soldier's face.

"Run!" is the only thing Alfred is aware enough to shout as he recalls the sensations of flesh and life, perverting the methods of healing to render and break skin and muscle, forcing the soldier's skin to lacerate and tendons to peel from his bones. The man is screaming beneath him, scratching at Alfred's face with his free hand until his fingernails bruise and break off. The screams cut off sharply and Alfred slouches, blood is leaking from the joints of the man's armor, giving off the thick stench of iron and death.

Alfred stands slowly, pinching his fingers over the wound in his shoulder and stops the bleeding with more effort than he would have liked. This is not the first time he's killed a man, but it's never something he wants to do or particularly enjoys. The girl and her brother are gone and he knows that she is familiar with the location of the cave, he sends out a silent prayer.

"The sound came from over here!" Alfred's mind is in a tumultuous wreck and cannot comprehend the approaching noise of clattering boots against the road. His blue eyes are wide as he watches as a group of men round the corner, their weapons drawn and faces dirtied from battle. Arthur is at the head of the group, his blond hair is mussed and blood is splattered across his face, but looks otherwise perfectly healthy. "Alfred!"

The healer's arms fall limp against his sides when Arthur approaches him, settling a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What happened?" he asks earnestly, peering down at the corpse at Alfred feet. The man's face is contorted still into his scream; trickles of blood oozing from his nose and tear ducts. "Oh God, what happened?"

"I've been in worse situations," Alfred murmurs cryptically.

Arthur's brows drop in worry and possibly fear as he regards Alfred, but there is no time to question the healer further as the sound of metal boots rise in the air, and a large group of soldiers hurry around the corner, their armor gleaming in the moonlight as the leader wastes no time, pointing at Alfred and Arthur and shouts a command in a foreign language.

The militia men surge forward, unthinking as a single arrow is loosed from a crossbow by the enemy. Everything is lost in chaos as the rebels pass them and Arthur falls, the stock of an arrow protruding from his thigh. Alfred tries to catch him, unable to hear the strings of curses that fall from Arthur's lips or the clashing of weapons and screams of fighting men, of dying men.

Alfred kneels and pulls Arthur to him protectively as the man tries to stand. Everything is muted and he feels heavy with the desperate need to be strong for Arthur, to protect him and save him. Dust picks up around them, and Alfred cannot see anything but the golden armor of the Drachman enemy, doesn't know anything beyond _stop them - crush them._

A stone slab dislodges itself from the ground and hurls itself into the fray as if possessed, burying itself into the golden helmet of an oncoming soldier. There is a sudden lull in the small battle before a screech of a single word breaks it, sending the men into a frenzied state.

_"Mage!"_

In his mind Alfred is the ground beneath their feet and he yawns, swallowing their golden boots and trapping them. They are screaming in panic and he reaches up with his hands. They are crafted of the smoothest marble, his nails made of the hardest diamonds, and he pulls at the stone building that towers over the enemy. Arthur is shaking him, shouting, "Scatter! Scatter! Flee!" but Alfred is as immovable as a statue, his eyes dulled into a steel concentration as the building begins to crack and crumble beneath his strength.

The carved wall groans as it starts to slowly fall before its weight forces it to swing with gravity and crush the trapped men beneath it. Their screams all stop eerily in concert, the dust settling as the wall lays cracked on the road.

"My God," is the last thing Alfred hears before he sways and loses consciousness.

* * *

When Alfred wakes next, he is lying down and his body is swaying back and forth as he blinks up at the cloudless blue sky. He feels as if he is drowning in a vat of electricity; his every pore is tingling and burning and freezing all at once, and magical backlash is a feeling he will never get used to, no matter how many times he subjects himself to it.

There is the groaning of wood beneath him, accompanied by the crunch of gravel and the beat of hooves. He wants to sit up and gather a better sense of bearing, but finds that he can do little else but groan and blink his heavy eyelids.

"You're awake." Suddenly Emma's face fills his vision, her curly blond hair spooling just below her chin as she stares down at him with her dark green eyes. "Can you follow my finger with your eyes?" she prompts, holding up a single digit and tracing it back and forth before Alfred's face. With a satisfied sigh she drops her hand. "Good to see that you're alright. You gave Arthur quite the scare when you were just a limp pile in his arms. He didn't have any idea what magical backlash was."

Alfred gives a shaky, twitching attempt at a smile, his blue eyes staring questioningly up at Emma.

She chuckles at him and there is a jerk as whatever they're in dips and bounces back up. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions," she says softly, pushing some of his messy hair from his face. "I'll try and answer what I can, but for now the basics are this: you've been asleep for just over twelve hours, we're in a wagon heading for Radia, Arthur is here too, but he went ahead on a horse to set up camp on the edge of the forest. Oh," and she grins down at him and taps him on the tip of his nose, "and you saved my home, you saved my fiancé, but everyone was so scared of you after they saw... the damages. We decided to leave and I opted to care for you. Thank you." Her eyes grow gentle as she leans back a little more. "I hope I can repay you someday, Alfred. But for now this is the best I can do."

"Hn."

Emma looks away briefly to watch the road behind them, the dust kicking up into thin clouds as the wagon continues its leisurely path. "Go on back to sleep," she coos down at him. "You need all the rest you can get."

Alfred can't disagree, his eyes already beginning to droop with fatigue. He mumbles something under his breath, a thank you, a question, neither of them really know and he falls asleep.

The noise of a crackling fire is the next thing he hears and when he opens his eyes there is a starry sky slightly impeded by spade-shaped leaves on the gnarled fingers of a tree. "Wha..." His spectacles are gone and when he tries to lift his arms, his fingers feel like they're tied to the ground by taut strings. There is a soft, feminine hum and his head is lifted and pillowed into someone's lap.

Emma peers down at him once more, pushing a wooden cup filled with water to his lips. "Nice to see you awake again," she murmurs as he drinks greedily. "Do you think you can stay conscious long enough to have some broth? It's still cooking, so you're going to have stay awake."

"Okay." He blinks his eyes, trying to find something to focus his blurred vision on. "Ar...thur?" he asks, looking around wildly, unable to identify anything he sees. "Where?"

"He's right here sweetie, calm down." Emma lifts up his head once again and slips out from underneath, only to have her lap replaced by a harder, muscular one.

Alfred looks up to blearily see Arthur looking down at him with a blank emotion. He can hear Emma's receding footsteps punctuate the silence until there is nothing but the rustling of wind in the leaves and the crackling of the fire. He doesn't know what to say to the bleak face hovering above his so his mouth opens and closes several times before he manages to lift a hand and say, "Your wound..."

There is a stab of fear in his chest and Arthur catches his wrist and presses his hand back to the ground. "I'm fine," Arthur says, his voice shaking with a dark emotion. "Don't... don't do anything."

He's scared and he's afraid that what he's feeling is Arthur's fear, scared that it's his own; scared of himself. "I..." Alfred's throat constricts. He doesn't remember what happened or what he did, but he has a sick feeling curdling in his stomach that the marble hands that he dreamed about did more than protect. "Did I hurt... anyone?" All he could see was the golden armor that night - there was nothing else but stone, Arthur, and the golden armor.

Arthur doesn't say anything for a few moments and Alfred can feel the first hot tear make a pitiful path down the side of his face and into his hair. "Just the enemy. You didn't hurt anyone you weren't supposed to."

"O-oh... thank God... I..." He chokes of a sob and wishes he had enough energy to hide his face in his hands so Arthur couldn't see him break down. "I'm sor-sorry," he whispers between heaving breaths. "Sorry... please don't... hate me."

Strong fingers begin run gently through his hair, soothing touches along his scalp as the tears keep coming. Arthur sighs and it sounds regretful and sweet at the same time. "I don't hate you, Alfred," he says softly. "Sometimes it's easy to forget who you are - what you are and what that means. I should be the one apologizing to you. I promised you that I wanted to understand and when... you just - it was as if you were a puppet on cut strings and it was... frightening. But, I went against what I promised you, and I'm sorry."

Alfred whines, unable to find a better way to disagree with Arthur. Using what strength he feels he might have left in his entire body, Alfred reaches up and catches the hand that is carding through his hair. "I've... never used magic like that before – ever. I don't know how..." He sighs and sniffs, feeling himself grow tired and heavy - as if simply holding Arthur's hand is too much exertion. "But I think it's you. And... and I'm a magician - I'll follow you until you tell me to stop, Arthur. I pledged myself to you."

"Don't say such silly things," he says, but Alfred is already asleep. He squeezes Alfred's hand and drops it, returning to his earlier ministrations and cards his fingers through the healer's hair. Knowing that Alfred is capable of so much destruction - it's eye opening. He's known it since a child, but has always turned a blind eye to the fact - that fact that Alfred is a weapon. He'd never seen it before, never had to face the realities, because to him Alfred was that little boy he would watch chase the falling peach blossoms in the spring, the one he would share fruit with in the shade, the one he would tell dirty jokes to just to watch him blush due to childish innocence and ignorance.

Emma walks over to them quietly, a bowl in her hands as she stares at them. She clears her throat and Arthur finally looks up from Alfred's sleeping tear-stained face. "Did he fall asleep again?" she asks softly, even though the answer is obvious. When Arthur nods she only sighs dramatically. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped. He needs his rest. Stay with him, won't you? I'll be right over there if you need anything."

Arthur purses his lips together. He waits until Emma is settled on the other side of the camp before removing himself from underneath Alfred's head and sets up his bedroll next to Alfred's. "Get well soon," he mumbles under his breath as he gets comfortable. "We'll be in Radia soon enough, and we've a job to do."

* * *

When Alfred is able to sit up on his own, they're still traveling down a dirt road. The scenery around them is slowly turning from the dusty, rocky plains to bright hills covered in short fields of grass and small clusters of skinny trees. He leans up against the back of the wagon, swaying back and forth with the wood as he rips apart pieces of bread and eats slowly.

There is a letter in his hands, the paper crumpled and the words within hurried and slightly blotched, but he reads it with an emotionless expression. Arthur is watching him from a horse that is trotting next to the wagon, its blond tail swatting at late summer insects as it goes. The letter is addressed to Alfred from Sir Morgon.

_Healer,_

_We did not part on the best of terms, but I have come to understand what an invaluable part you have played in the victory of my hometown. We have held off the Drachman for now, but I do not think we will survive another attack. We are evacuating the city and regrouping in the next town over to fortify and bolster their numbers. They will not get past our walls._

_Captain Kirkland is heading to Radia to report the loss of my home, and to request aid from the King. I do not know how well this plan will work, but there must be hope. I do not doubt that you care much for this news - as it has likely been imparted to you already, but this letter is of a much different nature._

_My accident was no accident at all. I was trying to stop a spy, a filthy, cursed Drachman. He rides a chestnut mare and keeps his face hidden behind a white cloth, claiming to be a sickly sort. If you ever see him, beware him, kill him if you can. I have belief that he is of your kind, healer, and if that is so then he cannot be working alone. I refuse to let such a filthy creature get too close to our King and to our information._

_We can stop this invasion. We must. We are only few, but it only takes one to change all of history. _

_Be well and take care of Emma for me._

_Sincerely,_

_Sir Morgon Tanner_

"What does it say?" Arthur asks when he notices Alfred put away the letter, folding the edges as he does so. "Is it important at all?"

Alfred shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't realize we were going to request the aid of the King," he says in a clipped tone. The last thing he wants is to see anyone from the castle ever again - mostly in fear that they will recognize him and tell Radu.

"Ah, yes." Arthur smiles lightly at Alfred. "I'm not going as Captain Kirkland. I'm going merely as a survivor of the last attack. Radia is the nearest city of commerce in this area. Word will get to the capital much sooner this way." He tilts his head slightly in curiosity. "Is that all the letter had to say? I could have told you all that myself once you were feeling well enough to stay awake."

"No." Alfred folds the letter once again. "Sir Morgon says that he came across a Drachman spy before his accident. I... don't really know if it's true, but he says that the reason this man needs to be stopped, is because it's likely that he is a magician as well."

Arthur becomes slightly pale at this information and he urges his horse closer to the wagon. "If that man were to get close to the King..."

"Radu would kill him." Alfred smiles bitterly. "He's not there simply to teach me, you know. He pledged his skills to the King - and he is one of the best in all of the land, even if he might be originally from Bardiche. Without fail, Radu would kill him and that would be that." There is the unspoken thought, the quiet realization that all of Alfred's training was for that same purpose. To kill. Arthur's shoulders slump and he looks away. He and Alfred are never as different as he believes they are. "If we do see him, though, it's better that we stop him before he can get that close."

"Yes, yes you're absolutely right." Arthur shakes himself from his melancholy, pulling his shoulders back and sitting upright in his saddle. "Well, if you need anything, I'll be close at hand. We'll be stopping shortly for a meal."

Alfred nods and looks away from Arthur as his friend spurs his horse ahead of the wagon. He stares out into the wilderness around them, the dusty path they travel obviously ill-used and slightly grown over with short vegetation. With a yawn, Alfred stretches his muscles and allows his head to fall back and eyes flutter closed. He is no longer tired, but there is little else for him to do but muster what strength and energy he can while he waits for their journey to end.

When they stop for their midday meal, Alfred dares ask, "Once we contact the King, what are we going to do?" He tears apart a piece of bread, dipping it into his bowl of broth and popping it into his mouth as he waits for an answer from either Arthur or Emma. "We don't have a plan, do we?"

"I thought we might continue on as we were," Arthur admitted softly. "There's no real direction to take, is there? Why not help bolster the ranks of another town for a while?"

"That would be useful if you had a regiment behind you, Captain," Emma says, surprising both of her companions. "You saw how little it did for my home - the only reason it hasn't been burned down right now is thanks to Alfred. Radia is a large city of commerce and wealth. I'm sure it would be an excellent place to begin asking about this spy that Morgon mentioned in his letter, Alfred."

Alfred pauses, a soaked piece of bread hovering before his lips before he pulls it away with a look of curiosity. "You think we should look for him?" he asks. "But we don't even know who he is or if he's really a spy - or a magician at that."

"True." Emma shrugs. "Although I don't think Morgon would mention it if it's not important. That's the kind of man he is. Maybe it would be safer to find this man - the Drachman, than throwing yourselves into the battle where you cannot help as much as you believe you can. Ending the war is important, but it's far more important that we end it in our favor. Two men can do far more in subterfuge than they can against an army." She smiles towards Alfred. "And don't think I haven't noticed the way you charm yourself into things, young man. So don't tell me you know nothing of subterfuge."

Arthur laughs, his head tilting back slightly as Alfred flushes in embarrassment (either from being caught in his little games or because he honestly never knows what he is doing whenever he grins that lopsided smile, Arthur doesn't know, but it's endearing). "She does have a point," Arthur says with a light smile. "Radia's pubs and inns would be an excellent source of information on the war and such."

Emma stands and dusts off the back of her frilled blue healer's robes. "As long as you don't waltz in and start asking the obvious questions, that is." Alfred gives a half shrug as he continues to eat slowly. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she says. "And no I don't need an escort, just going to take care a call of nature, thank you anyway, Arthur."

"Right." Arthur sits down next to Alfred from where he had begun to stand. "Are you feeling much better?" he asks, watching Alfred eat greedily for a few scant moments. "Your appetite has gotten better at the very least."

"I'm doing fine; you don't have to worry so much." Alfred smiles and shakes his head. "This is cakewalk compared to when I... well with you... Well, anyway, I'll probably just sleep a bit more and I'll be good as new."

Arthur tilts his head in thought. "Is it always like that? When you use that much magic?"

"No. What I performed back there - Radu could do that easily and not even feel it." He sighs through his nose. "Radu's had years of practice and restraint. I don't, at least, not really. Using magic efficiently is like... building a muscle. The more you work, the stronger it gets, but it does peak and plateau after a while. Why do you ask?"

"Hm... To be terribly frank with you, when you fell unconscious on the street, I panicked. I panicked a lot. I rushed you over to Emma's home before I could even comprehend that you might just be sleeping or such." Arthur reaches out and grasps one of Alfred's hands in his own, letting the warm pad of his finger trace along the healer's many scars across his palm. "I was worried - scared. I honestly don't want to have to witness something that like again, not like that, not without knowing."

Alfred swallows thickly and he can feel his face bloom into a humbled blush. "Oh," is all he can think to say for a minute. He watches Arthur trace the scars on his hands as if he were receiving a palm reading and he sighs. "I didn't realize you would be so worried," he says once he remembers himself and reluctantly pulls his hand away from Arthur's. "I suppose… magical backlash is when a magician over extends their abilities and fall into… well I guess it could be compared to a concussion or a coma, but it's a fatigue of both the body and spirit. It feels as if your muscles are made of lead, your skin is fire, and that you're decapitated – or wish you were. It's… unpleasant to say the least."

"You mustn't exert yourself so!" Arthur's face is earnest and Alfred almost laughs because he can't help but feel like a child again listening to Radu warn him of every repercussion to every choice he would ever make. "It cannot be healthy for you to keep doing this to yourself, Alfred."

"I… well I suppose it's not." He smiles at Arthur. "Maybe I should start practicing using magic? Like, _real _magic?" Alfred bounces a little in his seat, leaning towards Arthur slightly in his eagerness. "I could actually be of use to you! And – and protect you and be in control of myself and – and our emotions and maybe even find out just how we're connected and how it all works. I mean what are the benefits and drawbacks of being bound to someone like this?"

Arthur only shakes his head. "Now you're only talking about things I do not understand. This binding business… is already confusing enough for me without the magical implications. From what I've understood we are… connected… emotionally? I feel what you feel and you feel as I do. That is strange enough to me, I think."

There is a lull in the conversation as Emma returns from the sparse woods, wiping her hands on the front of her robes. "Are you two ready to head out?" she asks as she begins to gather up and clean their shoddy traveling pots and bowls. "If we continue at this pace, we should make it to Radia in perhaps two more days."

Alfred bites his lip. "Radia could only be a five to six day march away? Drachma wouldn't push its luck that far into the heart of Flamberge, would it?"

"Doubtful," Arthur says as he helps Emma repack. "Their likely course is to continue to pillage the northern towns and villages – where they are weak and the resistance is weaker still. That way they have places to house men, store weapons, and syphon food from local warehouses. They will take all the nearby towns first, surround Radia, and then make an attack when they're finally trenched in." He shrugs. "Or at least that's what I would do, if I were in that position."

"I see…" Alfred looks to Emma and stands slowly, grimacing as the muscles in his back protest the movement. "Emma did Sir Morgon happen to tell you anything about this spy? His information to me was very… vague."

The woman only shakes her head. "You know more than I do," she says apologetically. "But I'm sure there is bound to be plentiful word of strange refugees or suspicious characters. It is a time of war – people pay attention to these things."

"I suppose you're right." Alfred stretches a moment and then stiffly climbs into the back of the old wagon, swatting away Arthur's helpful hand. He may have been sore, tired, and slightly light-headed, but he still has his pride. "Let me know when we're in Radia," he says, only partially joking as Emma takes up the long reins and Arthur mounts the twitching stallion, "I have a lot of thinking to do – meditation – please don't interrupt me."

Arthur leans over and places a hand on Alfred's shoulder as Emma nods and starts the wagon back into motion. He looks as if he wants to say something, his lips parting and quavering with half-words and thoughts before Arthur merely gives him a strained smile and ushers his horse a head of the wagon.

He has much to think about indeed.

- End Chapter Six -

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_Unimportant Notes: _Happy Holidays to everyone.


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